Fallen Angels
by Phoenixflames12
Summary: 'Enjolras was a charming young man who was capable of being terrible'. A first attempt at Les Miserables Dystopia AU in which our gloriously golden revolutionary is pushed to the limits of physical and mental strength by the officials of the Capital who desire to see the passionate flame of revolutionary fire extinguished for good. Please feel free to read and review! Much love x
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: In all honesty, I have no idea whatsoever where this idea came from; but I'm hazarding a guess that it's from Stagepageandscreen's wonderful dystopian AU fic titled '(Un)natural Selection'- hopefully she will forgive me! This is my first attempt at writing anything like a Les Miserables Modern AU Dystopia- so please bear with me! **_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive! *By putting them all through **_**_indescribable pain you mean? Right...*_**

Fallen Angels

'_Enjolras was a charming young man who was capable of being terrible' Les Miserables (Book IV Chapter 1 – A Group That Barely Missed Becoming Historic)_

He does not look so charming now. With his head bowed he wears a sodden halo of blood and shit that is crusted to his angelic locks with a sweetly perverse sheen of sweat that plasters the mess of golden curls to his high, pale forehead like a sodden, sun soaked halo. His whole body trembles with the effort of remaining upright; his legs which were broken long ago by an officials' blow that he hadn't seen coming now shudder uncontrollably against the cold, wet surface against which he is chained; the limbs fighting fruitlessly through the icy bite of metal that binds them in a thick, perverted embrace and refuses to let them go; the muscles silently screaming for a freedom that he prays will come; but in reality knows it won't.

Shuddering bursts of unimaginable pain judder through his body at random intervals; bursting in front of his shattered vision in blurred rainbows of fiery colour as he struggles to remain conscious; to remain anchored in a reality that is begging him to let go. To release his exhausted, useless body from this dark, unknown Hell that he has somehow found himself thrown into and allow his broken psyche to at last be free in the sweet oblivion of nothingness.

But he can't. He won't. He knows that much as he clings to the thought bubble as it struggles through the darkness of his pain filled brain; a weak, white beacon of hope as his wrists spasm against the manacles that are on the verge of pulling his arms out of their sockets; his shoulders screaming silent cries of desperate agony as the shattered tendons are slowly pulled apart inch by agonizing inch. Unconsciously he feels himself balling his hands into fists against the pain; relishing in the single fact that his fingers are; as yet; not broken and yet feeling himself suck back an involuntary gasp that flutters through bitten, bleeding lips as a flash of agony rips through the clenched digits as they spasm without warning against something coldly plastic; the skin barely shivering against the round, symmetrical weight of a button that rises without warning through the darkness into his palm and out into the cold, dank darkness of this unknown holding chamber.

Pain. It rips through his already broken body like an express train carrying 230 volts of unbearable, inconceivable agony speeding through his shattered self- blinding flashes exploding in a firework display of colour through his shattered vision, making any sense of rational momentarily impossible as he desperately tries not to scream it all away. Desperately he tries not to give in to the ghosts, the memories that are crowding round the shattered remains of his once proud fortress; circling the broken remnants of his fragile psyche like vultures over a carcass, biding their time, waiting until he is once again at his most vulnerable before they strike.

They won't have long to wait, he thinks bitterly as he desperately tries to block out the distorted rainbow of colours dancing through his broken mind and focus on the immediacy of his situation. But any sense of rational is proving impossible as the electricity continues to surge its way through his shattered soul and the screams that he refuses to release continue to bubble up through a mouth that stinks of salt soaked iron; only to be bitten back into oblivion because he knows inexplicably that that is what They want. They want to know how much they can throw at him before he breaks completely; how far they can push the once gloriously golden Icarus before the passionate, rebellious spirit that has hounded Them for so long is finally and completely extinguished. Not just extinguished though. Broken.

He will not give Them what they want; he knows that much as he continues to struggle; numbing bursts of agony coursing through the taught tendons of his neck as he finally allows his chin to fall back onto his chest; a single thought throbbing through his dying brain. _They can break his body as much as they want, but they will not break his pride._

Blood red. Burning amber. Blinding white. Crushing, oblivious black. Forest green blinded by a lake of silver tears. Fiery hazel flecked with gold like the colours of a dying sunset. Cerulean blue. Liqueur brown. Shocking, salt soaked scarlet seeping itself over dusty cobblestones in a final, weeping sacrifice to his beloved Patria. Blood that had been slashed through with darkness as he feels himself once again being dragged away from his friends, away from the fight for a freedom that seemed as distant as stars; desperately trying to fight the unwelcome hands, the icy metallic bite of the rusted manacles snapping themselves like a vice over wrists crusted with unknown blood that wasn't his own, closing over fingers that still tremble for the cold safety of his hand gun that had been wrestled out of his grip in a struggle with the Official. That had been the turning point and yet he had been close, so close... If he had just...

That had been the fight that had resulted in a broken nose and the beginnings of a rainbow mask of brutal bruising caressing the high, fine lines of porcelain brilliance. Had resulted in him being forced to his knees and the icy metallic beauty of a revolver being slotted against his temple as his arms were forced behind his back and the cold, hard sole of a hobnailed boot had stamping on the fragile ligaments of his wrists so that he heard the tendons snap; felt a sobbing, scream of rage bubble through his throat as thick, unwelcome fingers had pinched his nose until he was forced to open his mouth to breath and a rough, cold something that stank of chloroform had been shoved down his protesting throat.

Dimly he remembers hearing shouting at this point as he had felt his body being dragged away; his legs suddenly too weak to support his weight as he was thrust into an oppressively small space that at the time he perceived to be an Official Police truck. A space where thick hands had bound his too stupefied body to a post and slammed the doors shut; allowing their prisoner to be once more swallowed up by the drugged darkness of his own mind. A darkness which they thought would, in time, absorb him like it had sucked in so many of the other bright, passionate souls who had dared to speak out against the Regime into the crushing, oblivious darkness of the Capital. Their passionate prisoner whom they hoped would be spat out into the grey blankness of the City's work force, dull eyed, dull thinking, compliant machines programed only to do the bidden of the Capital's officials. He squeezes his eyes shut at the thought; welcoming the blast of pain that erupts through the broken rainbow of brutal bruising; willing himself not to think like that.

He cannot let them do that him; he must not; he must not allow himself become one of the pitiful nonentities who he had so desperately wanted to save and yet… And yet they are so close to completely extinguishing the passionate flames of hope and life that he has managed to conserve for so long within himself, within his friends; those bright, hopeful, passionate souls that he knows he will never see again... Oh dear God… Their faces seem to rear before his shattered vision before he can stop them; battered, broken shells of warriors struggling on through the darkness; flickering, guttering, fading and he can hear himself calling their names over and over again; knowing that the taste of the those achingly familiar syllables that dance on his bloody, barren tongue is the only thing that is going to be able to keep him sane…

_Bahorel; his brave, passionate, courageous fighter. Bahorel with his receding mop of gingery brown hair stumbling into the haze of feverish anticipation that had gripped their underground safe house mere days before the Rally When It All Went Wrong; his dark eyes flickering concernedly over his friends as he stood framed in the doorway; silently checking, reassuring himself that they were all still there; still safe and whole in the knowledge of their friendship as he had swung Gavroche onto his shoulders and piggybacked the laughing gamin over to his table with news from the streets._

_Bossuet; his survivor. Bossuet whose charming smile and dark eyed laugh masked a life where Lady Luck continuously turned her hand against him as he beat a furious Courfeyrac at dominoes and threw Jehan who had been sitting huddled in a corner with Feuilly drafting a new pamphlet a suggestion on the 'equality of women's rights and the oppression of the female sex'._

_Courfeyrac; his centre. Laughing, living, loving Courfeyrac whose passionate energy lit up even his darkest hours as his laughing smile radiates through the tense, thick silence. Courfeyrac the jester, the centre of Les Amis de l'ABC for that is what his fragile band of revolutionary freedom fighters call themselves- a pun dreamt up by the wicked humour of the dark haired centre on Abaisse- the lost, the debased- the wretched poor that he is so desperately trying to save so that one day all men; Bourgeois and gamin alike will be able to walk as one out of the tyranny of the Capital and into the bright, white land of peaceful Freedom._

_Combeferre; his guide. His oldest and closest friend, his first and best lieutenant, his comrade in arms, his brother in all but blood… _A sudden, choking sob rises painfully through his throat as he remembers the dark eyed agony branding itself like fire in every finely worked strand of liqueur coloured brilliance as he was dragged away; fighting with all his might against the brutal, unknown hands of the Official as a silent, desperate plea fluttering through the blood soaked chaos before the darkness finally overcame him and the yells of his friends were swallowed up by the thickly oppressive darkness of the truck.

'_Promise me 'Ferre, if anything should happen; you and Courfeyrac will get the others out alive. Get out of the city… Go… Go to the safe house… Use the back routes… Just get out my friend… Keep the others safe! Please… Don't worry about me… Just go! Please Mon Ami... We'll soon each other soon Mon Cher… Promise….'_

_Grantaire; his cynic. Grantaire whose drink slurred heckling whilst he sat slumped in the shadows of the Musain was there to protect him; he knows that now. Grantaire with his silent, passionate adoration leaping high within emerald coloured eyes as his hands flew over the creamy surface of stolen parchment; a luxury ferreted from the crooked hands of the black market that slowly swept the citizens up in a many threaded web throughout the slums in a city where art was banned; the line of the charcoal stub blurred until it was little more than a black swallow as the sketch took shape… The lines rushed and faded, the positions of the figures crudely blocked but still recognizable through the guttering light of the table lamp as a self portrait of his friends, the men who had welcomed him into their pack with open arms standing proudly framed on the bare stone wall above the blocked up fireplace…_

_Jehan; his poet. Jehan, the youngest of his friends; a child of sixteen who had run away from the compulsory, tyrannical boarding school that all male citizens had to attend from the ages of thirteen to eighteen. Jehan, the bravely passionate Romantic poet with the voice of an angel and the heart of a lion who had been thrown into the Juvenile Detention Centre for Moral Correction more times than he cared to admit for scrawling passionate defences of freedom of speech and the right for students to be able to speak of the old battle slogan that had once, long ago when the city was young and free rung across its' walls and burst on every citizens' lips at least once a day over the school property: __Liberté, Fraternité, Egalité ou la Mort ! _

_Joly; his medic. Joly with his wide, dark eyes full of compassionate concern as he tenderly bandaged the many and frequent injuries acquired by his friends in their desperate dream for freedom. Joly with his web of connections to the world outside the tyrannical hand of the Capital- forged through the love of his life; the dark eyed gypsy girl Muschietta who had become something of a sister to the fragile band of revolutionary dreamers and who he hopes has managed to meet up with them and keep them safe._

_Feuilly; his artisan. Feuilly; with his love of history and Literature and freedom for all people; no matter of class or gender or ethical background. Feuilly; who worked in the shadows, slowly crumbling the Capital with the speed and wit of his pen as drafts of new pamphlets flowed from the nib by the light of a guttering candle. Feuilly who had become part of their fledgling resistance group through the influence of Jehan whom he had met and befriended during one of their many stints together in the JDMC; Jehan there for writing illicit, illegal poetry; Feuilly for daring to having the audacity of reading it and speaking out until the masters had no choice but to throw him out entirely._

_Gavroche; his scout. Gavroche, the honouree member of Les Amis de l'ABC with his twinkling, blue grey eyes and mop of dirty blonde curls; always slipping through the hands of the officials like a fish through a net with a twinkling smile and a lightening fast hand; dancing through the snow soaked city like a ballet boy with the news from the streets as Bahorel swung him up onto his shoulders and piggybacked him over to his table…_

He hopes Combeferre and Courfeyrac have followed his silent, desperate orders; prays with what little strength he has left that his friends are safe; that they have managed to reach the safe house; have managed to regroup despite the confusion and relay the news to the other resistance groups who were scattered in small, secret hideouts tucked deep within the countryside out of reach of the officials and the city's never sleeping eyes of wardens and gossipers. Citizens too terrified to stand up to the Capital and instead were always on the watch for any whiff of dissent among their supposedly broken, willingly compliant fellow subjects; always ready to take a watching guard aside and whisper their findings into an always listening ear. Whispers that would soon become murmurings to the lesser officials, murmurings that would soon be passed in thick wads of creamy parchment to the council that would become an arrest warrant spiralling across the flattened wood pulp in long, black spiels of charcoal coloured ink, that would soon become the splintering crash of rifle butts on wooden doors…

Persistent, unwanted pricks of fiery emotion erupt in the corners of his shattered eyelids, which he doesn't bother trying to restrain. _Oh my friends, my friends don't ask me what your sacrifice was for!_ He lets the tears fall; relishing the salty, fiery pain slicing through his cheeks as he desperately tries to continue the list. The names of his comrades that feel as soft and as reassuring as dreams as they rise to his bitten, bleeding lips as he continues to hang there in the darkness; allowing the names of his friends, his brothers to wash over his exhausted self; desperately trying to allow the thought of their dark eyed laughing smiles to banish the agonizing ache that is slowly creeping over his shattered, broken body and yet finding it impossible as the crushing darkness of senseless oblivion finally overpowers him and he is lost; tumbling through the thick, perverted nothingness of his broken mind; never to be seen or thought of again.

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! I don't know whether I'll continue this or leave it as a one-shot; we shall see! Questions, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain! **_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Wow. I didn't know you guys liked reading stuff about dystopian futures/Enjolras torture scenes so much! This is for all the wonderful people who have decided to read, review, follow and favourite this story- you have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated! **_

_**Disclaimer: As I not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive! Please don't sue me!**_

Chapter 2

A city at dusk. A city blanketed by a thick invisibility cloak of unspoken, choked up fear as the familiar whining click of the electricity blowing itself out shudders its' way through the already silent streets with an efficiency that only the top Official Engineers of the Capital can manage. You are a fool if you even think about going out at night after this time; everybody knows that. Best to stay in the cold, dark safety of your living room and huddle together for warmth as nights' thick, inky carpet slowly unravels itself over the rain soaked streets. Best not to think about the poor souls still struggling to get home through the ever oppressive, rain soaked darkness; numb fingers scrabbling for the cold safety of keys, darting into the shadows as the familiar tramp of the Officials' boots drums itself through the silence as the search for any rebellious spirits not inside at Curfew continues.

Deep within the bowels of a shadowy alleyway a faint, electronic click is heard. A hissing, flaring click that is followed by a muffled curse and a whispered yelp of pain as an elbow is shoved hard into the offending chest. A disembodied hand reaches out and pulls the first shadowy body close, desperate for the security of another's touch as the steady tramp of footsteps echoes itself back into silence and all is quiet once more.

'Message sending failed,' comes a hoarse, choked whisper from the shadowy safety of the wall as the phone is clicked open again and a faint, harsh beam of artificial light illuminates the pale, thin face of the speaker; his dark eyes wide with exhaustion as he checks the screen for a final time before shutting the phone down with a snap. 'Damn them. Damn all them all to hell,' he mutters furiously under his breath; glaring back up at the velvety blackness that is studded with silver stars for a moment that feels like an eternity but in reality is simply the length of a ragged breath before dropping his gaze and staring bleakly at the phone in his lap.

'What?' Another voice; more muffled this time but still taught with whispered urgency comes from the first speakers' right pipes up as the moon slips behind a heavy, violet cloud and is lost from view. 'Joly? What is it? What's happened?' This was Jean Prouvaire; self nicknamed Jehan; Romantic poet, activist, musician and long term resident at the JDMC amongst other numerous talents that were sorely wasted in the Capital's rigorous regime of complete compliance from all citizens. He pushes himself further up against the wall to gain a better look at his friend, wincing slightly as his bruised ribs made contact with the cold, wet stone and wraps his arms around his knees; resting his chin on his kneecaps as he watches his friend through wide, uncomprehending eyes.

'I need to get a message to 'Chetta, Gavroche and 'Ponine. Tell them what's happened… Tell them…' Joly's voice tails away into a badly suppressed sob at the sound of two feet landing heavily on the ground beside him followed by a grunt of pain as a torch beam flashes into life; illuminating their immediate surroundings for the first time since they had fallen in a jumble of broken limbs and bodies into the cool, dark safety of the alleyway; their hearts thumping painfully against their chests as at last their flight was ceased.

It is here that they hide. It is here that eight broken souls cling to each other like sailors to scraps of driftwood amid a storm tossed sea, hardly daring to breathe as the enormity of their situation finally catches up with them. Joly sits with his back pressed up painfully against the wall; clutching at an ancient, brick-like Nokia phone- a bashed up relic from the pre-War days before It All Went Wrong and all citizens were forced on pain of death or in some of the more extreme cases to suffer forced Alteration to hand in any form of personal technology that could grant access to the outside world into the Capital's Officials as if it is the only thing that is going to keep him from falling.

His eyes flicker momentarily towards Combeferre who is sitting huddled against Courfeyrac's solid bulk; his head rested on the centre's shoulder, the dark eyes shielded by wire-framed spectacles squeezed shut against the images, the memories, the crushing sense of guilt-ridden grief that has enveloped all of them like a second skin and refuses to let them go.

_Enjolras standing proudly defiant on the podium, a gloriously furious revolutionary archangel bathed in the cold, grey light of dawn as a thin, stubbornly silent sun slowly bled its way over the jarringly symmetric buildings of the Capital. A cold red light that seemed to catch him, caress him, ignite him until his whole being burnt with the silent, passionate flame of liberty as he enthralled the crowd with his vision for a France in which all were equal, all men, women and children- Bourgeois and gamin alike were able to walk as one into the bright, white land of peaceful freedom._

_Their golden leader now being forced to his knees; the wide, cerulean blue orbs barely visible through the slowly forming mask of rainbow bruising suddenly dark with fear as his hands were forced behind his back and the icy metallic beauty of a revolver was slotted against his temple…. The sudden, agonizing crack of a hobnailed boot stamping on frail ligaments that had rent the air like a gunshot combined with a sudden, sobbing, strangled cry of pain filled rage as the burnished halo of golden curls threw itself up only to be forced back as the stench of chloroform made him want to gag and he saw the body at last fall limp before being dragged towards the crushing darkness of the police truck… A sobbing, screaming roar ripped from two bodies as Bahorel and Feuilly launched themselves towards Grantaire and Combeferre; their combined weight barely holding them back as they forced their way towards the rapidly disappearing truck…_

As his eyes grow more accustomed to the darkness, Joly can just about make out the centre's fingers raking themselves softly through his guides' hair; whispered words that he supposes speak of comfort falling unheeded as by the sliver of silver moonlight Joly sees a single tear squeeze itself out of the liqueur coloured eyes and slice the medical students' cheek in a final, heart breaking tribute to his fallen friend as he coughs back a choking sob and pushes his head further into the warm securities of the centres' jacket. _Oh Combeferre… Oh Mon Ami… I am so sorry Mon Cher…_

The feeling of sudden pressure on his shoulder. He glances up, blinking into the harsh, artificial glare of the torchlight to see Bahorel standing over him, his battered, broken face looking even more grotesque due to the distinct lack of light; a predicament made even worse by the fighters' hulking shadow. Joly can just about make out the beginnings of what promises to be a splendid black eye alongside the usual scrapes and bruises and a swollen, bleeding lip and feels the medical side of his brain begin to take furious, mental notes of all the injuries that will need attending to if and when they reach the safe house.

'We need to get out of here.' The statement is painfully simple as Bahorel flicks his gaze over to their other friends; towards Combeferre who Joly suspects with a sudden pang of fear is on the verge of both physical and mental collapse and Grantaire who has barely spoken a word since he witnessed Enjolras' arrest; and is now huddled up against an overflowing bin staring at nothing beside Feuilly and Bossuet who are both trying to get him to snap out of his trance and failing miserably; his whole body trembling with a mixture of suppressed emotion; and Joly hazards a guess; alcohol withdrawal. The medic feels his heart twist painfully in his chest as he nods and struggles to his feet; allowing a stray finger to trail itself lightly over Jehan's cheek before pocketing the phone; accepting Bahorel's hand to pull him upright.

'News?' The sound of his voice, even in a whisper sounds obstructively loud as the flickering beam of light from Bahorel's torch guides him to where Combeferre and Courfeyrac are still huddled together like frightened children. Bahorel shakes his head at the question and raises his eyebrows in a gesture that clearly says: '_not yet. But soon. We don't have much time before They'll start looking for us; so we need to get out. Now.' _Joly nods again and allows himself to drop down beside the pair as Courfeyrac extracts an arm from around Combeferre and reaches out to him, suddenly desperate for the security of another's touch.

'Are we leaving? Now?' The centre's voice is little more than a choked whisper that sounds so different, so utterly unlike the usual bubbling vitality that inhabits every pore of Courfeyrac's body that Joly has to blink before nodding and squeezing in closer to feel for Combeferre's forehead; relishing in the comforting weight of the centre's fingers beneath his own.

The guide doesn't respond to his touch immediately; simply buries his head further into the security of Courfeyrac's chest, his shoulders' shaking from the weight of supressed emotion. Biting his lip so hard that he tastes blood blooming over his teeth, Joly tries again; desperately trying to restrain the sudden, painful swoop of anxiety from settling itself in the pit of his stomach as he caresses the hard, fine line of his fellow medical students' cheek; allowing his fingers to cup themselves around the cleft chin and force his friends' head out of Courfeyrac's jacket.

'Combeferre… 'Ferre look at me… Please?' The guide's face is smudged with a sorry makeup of tears and dirt as the wide, dark eyes finally blink themselves back into focus and allows Joly to place his palm against his forehead; watching the medic visibly relax as after a moment or two he exhales a breath and removes his hand. 'No fever,' he mutters and Combeferre nods in understanding as he allows Courfeyrac to haul him to his feet and removes his spectacles, rubbing them furiously on a corner of his jacket before turning to Bahorel who nods and gestures through the darkness to the others that the coast is for the moment, clear.

They come slowly, cautiously, Jehan almost curling himself up into the safety of Courfeyrac's chest; the solid comfort of Bossuet's fingers gripping his shoulder sending a wave of relief through Joly as he leans into his best friends' touch, Feuilly supporting a silent, wide-eyed Grantaire whose legs look like they are about to fold with every step he takes as they stagger towards the group.

Pulling himself out from Courfeyrac's embrace to avoid suffocating the poet; Combeferre performs a whispered roll call; his voice ragged with supressed emotion, the action so painfully reminiscent of Enjolras after a rally or before a meeting in the shadowy safety of the Café Musain or the Corinth, both of which are now utterly out of bounds, that Joly cannot help but feel unwanted pricks of salty pain stabbing at his eyelids which he furiously blinks back; refusing to give into the soft, dark well of comforting emotion that is tugging at the corners of his brain.

'We need…' Combeferre is cut painfully short by the sudden, ominous tramp of a patrol of Officials stamping their way over the rain soaked pavement above them combined with a inaudible commanding bark as Bahorel shoves the torch into his pocket and pushes Combeferre none-to-gently against the safety of the alley wall again; gesturing frantically to the others to follow as he peers up at the steady, swaying line of retreating backs fading into the darkness. Joly feels the warm, calloused pressure of a shaking hand slipping into his and squeezing as Bossuet pushes himself against his side; watching Bahorel's hand slowly rise with wide eyes as he strains his senses for any hint of other officials before turning to give a short, sharp nod to his fellows.

'Go!' They don't need telling twice as the command is roared into the darkness; coinciding most conveniently with the rising wail of the Police signals that explode through the air like gunfire; lighting up the once blissfully blank sky like a firework display of bright, painfully luminescent blue. Joly feels himself being swept along with Feuilly, Courfeyrac and Jehan down the impossibly cramped space that is suddenly ablaze with colour and noise; unable to register in time where and why he has lost Bossuet but unable to ask questions because there is no time and they need to get out of this alley before the Council work out who is missing from the electronic registers that have been set up in every Citizens' flat, they need to get out of the City before the Officials are sent out to assist the Police in their search parties, they need…

Joly can't think of anything else. He doesn't want to think about anything else. His whole being is set on the act of running, of dodging, of climbing, scrambling, leaping through the darkness; desperately trying to ignore the silent screams of his lungs for oxygen as they burn against his ribcage; desperately trying to focus on the solidness of Feuilly's hand in his palm as he feels himself being dragged along, on the plaited length of hair dancing in front of his eyes which he thinks is Jehan's auburn braid tied with a scrap of purple ribbon, on the flashing stripes of white that are Bahorel's shoes appearing out of nowhere and streaking off into the darkness with Combeferre, Grantaire and Bossuet behind him, on the look of pained, desperate agony branded through every strand of bright, cerulean blue brilliance as in his mind Enjolras is once again being forced to his knees and the stench of chloroform threatens to overwhelm him as the broken, beautiful beacon of hope and life slumps against the vice like grip of the Official….

He can feel tears in his eyes as he runs; blinding pricks of fiery emotion that he can't wipe away mixed with a sudden, throbbing ache in his side that signals a stitch as somehow they manage to cross the Capital Bridge and tumble as one multi-limbed organism down the rain soaked steps into the crushing darkness of the twisting labyrinth that is the Slums which lead out onto the suburbs and the security of the safe house… Safe security where Muschietta, Eponine, Gavroche and Marius if he got the message will join them. Safety where Bahorel, Combeferre and Courfeyrac will be able to relay news to François and Bertrand; the leaders of the two closest fellow resistance groups and try to work out a plan to save Enjolras from the unbearable, unspeakable fate that no doubt awaits him at the hands of the Capital. Safety where they will be able to rest and sleep and tend to their injuries; sweeping off the weary counters from the constantly changing Game of Life and start afresh with clear heads…

He is so caught up in his desperate, mental mantra that he doesn't realise that the body in front of his is slowing down and only just manages to stop himself from toppling into Feuilly as together they stumble down the shadowy, slippery steps into a shadowy, leafy side street where he can faintly hear a lone, plaintive note of a nightingale from somewhere high above him. Beside him, he can almost taste Jehan's energy as the younger boy jiggles from one foot to the other; desperately craning his neck to see if they are able to go inside and get warm. 'Hush Mon Ami,' he hears himself say; but doesn't understand why he says it as he feels himself place his free hand on the poets' shoulder which Jehan shrugs off irritably.

''Chetta! It's us! Let us in, will you?' The sound of Bahorel's voice booming through the darkness sends an involuntary shudder coursing through him as he glances over Jehan's head and desperately tries to search for the round, solid baldness of Bossuet in the darkness; furiously biting back the sudden swoop of panicked fear that threatens to settle itself once again in the pit of his stomach as he hears the creaking slice of locks being slid out of place and a thin, shadowy sliver of lamp light protruding from the crack as at long last the door finally creaks open. '_He'll be fine.' _He tells himself firmly, trying not to think about all the dangers that could have come into his best friends path on their desperate escape from the alleyway. '_He's got Combeferre and Grantaire. He'll be fine. He'll…' _

'Bahorel?' A pale, oval face with wide, almond shaped eyes the colour of honey peers around the door as a voice which sounds sweeter to him than all the nectar on Mount Olympus breaks through his mental mantra; wide, exhausted eyes darting over to scan the shadowy bushes and back again as the door creaks open another inch to reveal Muschietta clutching at the door knob; her face set and white with worry as she scans their faces; checking, reassuring herself that they at least are safe.

'I'm here 'Chetta. I've got Feuilly, Jehan, Joly and Courfeyrac. We're uninjured. The others… The others are on their way…' Bahorel pauses to catch his breath; suddenly bent double with his hands on his knees and Muschietta is finally able to catch his gaze and gasps; inexplicable tears of what he thinks is happiness pooling through each finely worked strand of amber coloured brilliance as she slips through the door and runs at him, her hair falling in a loose waterfall of dark brilliance behind her back as she pulls him into a tight embrace; the heart achingly familiar scent of rosewater and flour threatening to overwhelm him as her hands fly over his face; her lips planting soft, sweet kisses on every scrap of skin she can find; never wanting to let him go.

'Oh Joly,' she whispers as he pulls her close and plants a quick kiss on her nose; relishing in the warm security of her thin frame rising through his arms. 'I… when Gavroche…' Her voice is barely a whisper but Feuilly catches it and throws a searching glance at Courfeyrac whose eyes are wide as he reaches out for Jehan who returns the gesture gladly, eyes shining in the darkness.

'Gavroche?' The fighter's voice is harsh with incomprehension as he pulls himself upright and Muschietta nods silently; an action that clearly says that there will be more information inside; where it is safe to talk and make plans and where they will at last be able to rest.

Just then there is a crash from behind them, a muffled shout and Bossuet appears with Grantaire and Combeferre close behind. All three are thankfully uninjured; save for Bossuet's black eye and Joly lets out a ragged, tearstained breath that he didn't realise he was holding as he untangles himself from Muschietta's arms and trips blindly over to the trio; suddenly desperate to make sure that they are here; that they are not some fragment of his imagination.

'We're here. We're safe.' Combeferre tells him quietly; his voice rough with the exertion of running across half the Capital and threatening to break under the weight of suppressed emotion as he glances over at Grantaire who is being pulled into a giant bear hug by Bahorel and back again. Joly nods and all at once, the two medical students find themselves in each other's arms again; relishing in the tear stained warmth and comfort of togetherness as Combeferre buries his head in Joly's chest and desperately tries to stem the bitter onslaught of memories that are threatening to overwhelm him as Joly pulls him closer; one hand reaching up to card itself gently through the broken guides' hair in a silent act of reassurance.

'We will find him Mon Ami.' He hears himself whispering into the mess of dark strands as Combeferre chokes back another sob; willing himself to believe it. 'We'll bring him back wherever he is. We'll bring him back; I promise.'

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Questions, comments, suggestions, constructive criticism etc are like chocolate to my brain and will help me through all the essays I have to write for University- who thought it a good idea to have all the deadlines on the same day?**_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the wonderful people who have decided to read, review, follow and favourite this story! You have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated and I love and thank you with all my heart!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or **_**_living in C18th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!_**

Chapter 3

The sound of unknown boots tramping heavily across a bare stone floor combined with the slamming of a door assault his ears with a ferocity that he didn't think possible as he slowly tries to pull himself back into consciousness; carefully manoeuvring each fragment of his shattered soul into place for the next attack.

Everything hurts. The pain from his assaulted limbs has consumed him so completely and there is no way out; no way of escaping the rushing wave of silent, agonizing fire that is slowly eating him up from the inside and refuses to let him go. Oh he wants to let go; silently begs his useless, broken body with every last ounce of shattered strength left in him to grant the chance of freedom from this unknown, agonizing hell; but it won't.

It refuses him that one simple pleasure because in some distant part of his exhausted, pain filled, broken psyche that hasn't as yet been obliterated into nothingness by pain; he knows that he has to hold on. Knows that he has to keep fighting, that he cannot let Them realise that he is close, so close to giving up, that it is imperative that he keep fighting against Their vice like grip with every fibre of his being if he even stands a chance of seeing his friends, his stubborn band of revolutionary dreamers again…

An unwanted, choking sob rises and dies through his throat as he silently calls out to them; the achingly familiar syllables dancing on his tongue sweeter than the thought of any number of release papers. _Bahorel… Bossuet… Combeferre… Courfeyrac… Feuilly… Grantaire… Jehan… Joly… Gavroche… Marius…_ The name of the Monarchist is a new one on his list he realises dully as their faces seem to rise through his shattered vision and he clings to them; praying that they have reached the security of the safe house and that they are together; safe and whole and pure in their knowledge of their friendship. _Oh Mes Amis… I am so sorry…_

A harsh bark of unknown laughter is followed by a sudden spasm of unimaginable agony as thick, unwelcome fingers yank unexpectedly at his hair and force his head up; the suddenly taught tendons in his neck screaming unheard cries of agony as he desperately tries to lash out at his captor; realising too late that he is still chained; that his limbs are still broken; that he is alone and probably underground; although he can't be certain and that… The thin, bitterly clear note of a knife being placed blade downwards against his neck rips through the thought like a sword through cloth as a hard, cruel laugh rings softly through his ears that make the hairs on the back of his neck go suddenly razor sharp with fear.

'That's it my pretty,' the voice is disturbingly soft and painfully smooth as he feels the knife slowly work its way up his neck; carefully caressing the lines of his throat, falling gracefully into the pit of his voice box as the grip tangled in his hair tightens; the unknown, the unwelcome fingers digging painfully into his scalp as he keeps his eyes on the metallic flash of silver dancing in and out of focus through his shattered vision. He can't breathe. All the oxygen seems to have vanished from his lungs as he continues to struggle; fighting fruitlessly through the vice like grip, knowing that it is hopeless and yet unable to stop himself because he has to fight; it is in his very being to fight and keep fighting the heavily oppressive hand of the Capital until at last, at long last his dreams for a free France are finally realised.

'They always give me the quiet ones,' the voice begins softly, almost reflectively and Enjolras feels a tremor of foreboding slice through him as the knife presses painfully into the flesh of his cheek; the insertion point leaving a stinging stab of pain before it is pulled away again.

'But they always talk in the end; when I'm through with them.' He smiles suddenly; the typical mess of broken, yellowing teeth that come from the poor diet eaten by the wardens and lesser officials leering horribly through the darkness in a plume of arid cigarette smoke as Enjolras desperately tries to twist away; realising too late that he is still manacled to the wall as a screaming burst of blinding agony rips through his shattered wrists and makes him suck in an involuntary gasp of pain that rises and dies through a throat now thick with fear.

The smoke stings his eyes; minute pricks of unbearable agony momentarily blinding him as he desperately tries to keep them open even though all he really wants to do is to slam them shut and keep them closed so that this doesn't have to be real, this could all be just a nightmare brought on by the stress of leading the Resistance which he will wake up from; which he has to wake up from and be safe and whole and warm in the love and company of his friends.

But he also knows that this is what They want; They want him to lose himself like this, lose his grip on reality until all his defences are down and he is easy prey and he refuses to give Them that so easily. He can't. Not now. Not when so much is already at stake and... The conflicting emotions must be present in his face; swirling through the rainbow mask of brutal bruising like ink over parchment because the Official laughs a hard, cold laugh that echoes eerily off the bare, stone walls as the knife now runs itself daintily along the ridge of his larynx; the pressure of the blade increasing ever so slightly as the sweetly perverse dance of death continues up to fall through the thin, sweat soaked linen of his shirt and into the pit of his shoulder blades.

'Shame though,' Enjolras doesn't want to hear it and yet he can't stop himself as he feels the body move closer towards him; each step seeming to last a lifetime even though the space between them is little bigger than a heartbeat. The rough, wet pressure of the gag is still thrust firmly between his teeth and forcing its' way down his throat makes him want to vomit as he continues to eye the knifes' progress; all the while trying and failing to keep his eyes on the official as the blade shivers, slips and a trickle of blood; too shallow to be truly painful but still feels like utter agony blooms from the wound; marring the marble skin in a bead of sickingly scarlet pain.

'Who knew marble could bleed, eh?' He doesn't reply; he can't; not with the pressure of the gag and the bitter aftertaste of chloroform threatening to pull him back under into its' dark embrace with every passing second he hangs there; fruitlessly trying to banish the ever present, silently screaming ache of his muscles as they are slowly pulled apart; willing himself to stay conscious, stay present until this endless, perverted torture session has finally reached its' climax.

'_Bastard' _he finds himself mouthing against the thick wad of material that is forcing his jaws apart in a painful grimace as the official takes another step towards him; twisting the knife upright so that even in the crushing darkness Enjolras can just about make out the icy, metallic glint of metal dancing through the space that is no bigger than a heartbeat that separates them. '_Bloody bastard', _the words scrape painfully against a lolling, useless tongue lying thick and dormant within a mouth that stinks of blood, salt and fear. The official doesn't seem to notice as the knife continues to shiver against his skin; the blade continuing its' dainty dance of death as it is now pressed firmly against the hard, high lines of his jaw; caressing the marble masterpiece like a lovers' hands; exploring every pore of alabaster brilliance as it plans its' next assault.

He tries to jerk his jaw away; but the thick, unwelcome fingers gripping his chin are like a vice and pull it forward into the cold embrace of unknown skin. The frigid pressure of a thumb presses itself firmly into the soft flesh of his cheek; the dark eyes sparkling with an almost inhuman, unprecedented malice as their glittering pupils bore into the cerulean blue orbs; branding themselves into each finely worked strand of azure brilliance; silently relishing in the torment they can see there; in the unspoken, choked up fear that is written as clearly as if it had splashed across the marble masterpiece with ink.

'Play nicely Enjolras,' the voice purrs softly as the knife flicks itself into the crook between the official's thumb and index finger; the cold, metallic weight working its way slowly down his neck so that it finally comes to rest inside the pit of his larynx once more. He can hear his heart beating in a ragged, frantic rhythm against his chest; the tiny organ hammering against his ribcage, can feel the icy rivers of panicked sweat erupting over his shaking hands fettered high above him as the tendons slowly pull themselves apart, can taste fear's itchy, arid dryness tickling his throat as a perversely small smile caresses the Official's lips as the grip tangled in his mess of sweat soaked, blood caked curls tightens momentarily and without warning he feels his head being jerked back; the taught tendons of his neck suddenly ablaze with pain as he throws his head against the uninvited digits; throwing his whole weight back against the wall in a desperate attempt to evade the touch as the knife rips itself in a sudden blaze of heat down his throat; the action so painfully quick that he doesn't even have the chance to scream.

_Not that anyone would hear him,_ he thinks bitterly as without warning he feels the grip in his hair loosen and the pain in his neck abate ever so slightly as his weight collapses back onto his chains with a grunt of pain; his broken body suddenly unable to support itself without the solidness of the Official's hands keeping him upright.

Silence. A silence so thick that it is suddenly hard to breathe. He slowly pulls his head back up to meet the glittering malice dancing through even strand of onyx coloured brilliance; hating himself as the leering, broken face swims in and out of his shattered vision. 'We don't _want_ to kill you,' the voice is disturbingly smooth; full of an almost childish sense of hurt as he continues to glare at the leering mouth with as much venom as he can muster, knowing that it is only a flickering, guttering flame of his usual glacial intensity and yet welcoming the sudden blast of pain that explodes through the mask of brutal bruising as the taught, battered skin contracts. _No, _he thinks in a sudden rush of bitter understanding.

_No, you don't want to kill me. You just want to see how far you can go before I break and tell you everything. You want to make an example of me; make an example of the resistance and I won't let you do that. Not now. Not after everything else you've done to us. I won't let you. But go ahead. I am ready. Do your worst._

'We just want information,' the Official continues, the voice taking on a dangerously soft pleading quality that jars against his ears as thick fingers continue to caress the hard fine lines of his jaw; the knife still glittering just out of his line of vision. 'You will give it to us, won't you? The Council is _so _longing to hear what you have to tell us...' _  
_

He must have made some sort of involuntary noise that dies against the thick, wet softness of the gag as the grip on his hair tightens and the knife is brought down carefully; the blade shivering inches from the dip of his left shoulder as it freezes in expectancy; inches above the alabaster masterpiece.

It is only then that his broken vision picks up the flickering light of the cigarette dancing through the shadowy fingers of the Officials free hand. A half smoked cigarette that hangs loosely from fingertips stained a gruesome sickly yellow from the nicotine; a guttering, fiery ember still clinging to its' tip as it is brought up to meet the knife; the action looking as if in slow motion. Enjolras can feel his eyes threatening to close, the lids desperately wanting to slam themselves shut against the oncoming pain, but still he forces them open because he knows that that is the exact reaction that this Official wants out of him as he feels his whole body threaten to freeze up; balling into itself against the prospect of the pain. Dimly, he can feel his heart thumping in a ragged, disjointed rhythm against his chest; the tiny organ straining against his ribcage in a desperate, futile attempt at keeping him grounded in a life which he knows is over.

_Oh Mes Amis… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… Just the information Enjolras. You know exactly what I mean; it's not hard… _

The silky smooth softness of the Official's voice breaks through his desperate mental mantra and he shakes it off roughly; refusing to allow it access into the one part of his broken mind that he has managed to keep whole and pure; safe away from the tyrannous hands of the Capital, ignoring the sudden tremor of icy fear that cascades over him as his brain catches up with the full extent of the thought.

_Information… No! No, you are going to have to kill me first and when you do, that secret dies with me; dies with the cause. You know that, don't you?_

_Oh but that's the point my little Phoenix Prince. _Futilely, he tries to block the voice out of his mind, using all his will power to try and push the strangely soft tones that are dripping with unspoken malice back into oblivion, but still they stay: stubborn and irremovable and the knows now that there is nothing he can do.

_All we want is information about your little secret; which I might add; is not going to be a secret much longer once I'm finished with you. The Council will be delighted to see you again once we're done in here; so if you just cooperate…._

_No… No… You can't… You wouldn't... Don't… Please don't… _

A sudden, blinding flash of unbearable agony shoots through him as the knife is brought down in a sudden spark of white hot metal; the fiery tip glowing eerily through the darkness. Sudden, desperate screams seem to rise unconsciously to his lips; fighting through the blockade caused by the gag as he rears against the chains; fruitlessly trying to twist away from the fire that has consumed him as the knife slices through shoulder blade; the stench of burning flesh making him want to vomit as the pain continues to consume him as he feels burning pricks of fiery emotion stab through his retinas; salty droplets of anguished agony that he cannot blink back, cannot brush away catching themselves onto his eyelashes as he feels himself choke back another painful sob, trying not to think about his friends' reactions if they saw him like this; a broken, burnt, battered marble statue clinging to life by a fingertip.

'_Oh Combeferre… I need you Mon Ami… I… I'm sorry… I can't… I can't do this… Please… I need you… All of you….'_

'_Relax 'Jolras. The pain will only get worse if you tense up so much Mon Petit and believe me; trying to stitch up a contracted muscle is not pretty... We will find you Mon Petit Ange… Just hold on… We will find you… Please just hold on for a little while longer… Please?' _

Who had said that? And how can he relax? How he can possibly relax when he can't breathe, see, or think for pain is beyond him. Desperately he tries to focus on the words, the voices that float in a disjointed blur of sounds through his brain; but they refuse to make any sort of sense as he feels the cigarette twist with agonizing slowness through the pit of his shoulder blade as he bites back yet another scream of anguished rage; hears the Official laugh long and hard into his face; silently relishing in his agony as he frantically tries to twist away again; sucking in another, involuntary strangled sob of pain as his broken wrist twist through the rusted manacles; sending judders of unimaginable agony coursing the taught muscles of his arms; the tendons threatening to snap with every passing second.

_How long has this been going on for? He doesn't know. Time has no meaning here in this crushing, unknown darkness and all he understands is pain; blinding, blistering agony that has consumed his very soul and refuses to let him out of its' thick, perverted embrace. All he hears are silent, desperate screams that make no sense as his mouth burns against the pressure of the gag and the low, soft laugh of the Official as he continues to struggle; because he has to fight; he has to find them; has to make sure that they at least are safe… _

Dimly he feels the knife shivering against the cigarette; hears a low, soft laugh softly slipping back into oblivion, feels his useless, broken body being thrown roughly forward so that his whole weight is now resting on his broken wrists; the already shattered ligaments screaming silent, desperate cries of unheard agony as he silently screams for Combeferre and yet knows deep down that it is hopeless. That Combeferre, Courfeyrac and the others will never find him now as he hangs there in the darkness feeling the blood drip with sickening slowness down his shoulder blades and into the cigarette burns as he finally gives his useless body up into the blissful darkness of oblivion.

'_Combeferre… 'Ferre… Please… I can't… I can't do this… Please Mon Ami… I'm sorry…. I'm so sorry… I tried… Oh Mon Cher… Forgive me… '_

**_A/N: Please feel free to read and review! This chapter was really hard to write for some reason so any questions, comments or constructive criticisms will be very much appreciated! _**

**_Much love and enjoy x_**


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the amazing people who have decided to read, review, follow and favourite this story! You have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated; especially now with my essay deadlines looming which is the sole reason why this has taken so long to be updated- forgive me?**_

_**This chapter is also my first tentative venture into the world of Eponine/Combeferre which I really, really love the idea of but have never written so please **_**_bear with me!_**

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

Chapter 4

'But we can't just sit here and do nothing!' Combeferre's voice breaks into a sudden, unwanted sob as Eponine forcefully pulls him back into his seat and presses a rapidly cooling mug of hot chocolate into his trembling hands. It's late evening, or early morning; that time of night when nothing is as it seems and no one has the heart or energy to question it.

Nobody speaks. Nobody moves. The only sound to break the silence comes from the continuous, methodical ticking of the clock on the wall above the kitchen sink and the slow drip of the tap from when someone forget to turn it off completely. The warm, dark cosiness of the familiar room seems to pull at them, tug at their tattered souls, the underlying, ever present feelings of guilt and grief clawing at their fragile consciousness's as Eponine silently wraps her arm around the broken guide's shaking shoulders and pulls him close; whispered words of what he suppose speak of comfort falling unheeded into the thin fabric of his shirt as he buries his head into the itchy wool of her jumper and desperately tries to back the tsunami of painful emotion that is threatening to overwhelm him.

From outside the tiny kitchen window overlooking the leafy yard that eight broken souls had fallen into only hours before a weak, white sun that is struggling over the horizon is just about visible; bringing with it new plans, new hardships, new questions that desperately need answering before it is too late.

How long have they been sitting around the scrubbed kitchen table for? Nobody knows and quite frankly nobody really cares because they are together and that is all that really matters now. Gavroche has long since fallen asleep; his mop of dirty blonde curls rested in Bahorel's lap as the fighter furiously tries to contact either François or Bertrand to see if they got Joly's message about Enjolras and the Rally and to decipher what the situation in the heart of the Capital is; what the mood of the Officials is and whether it is safe enough for them to return without the fear of being arrested and held by the Police for protesting against the Regime and being out long after Curfew without a valid reason from the Council.

'We… We have to do… Something…. 'Ponine… Please… I… I can't lose him…' Combeferre's voice is little more than a choked whisper as she rocks him gently as if he were a frightened child who had just woken from a nightmare; rocking him away frim the painful tirade of images, the memories that have branded themselves like fire against his soul; against all their souls and refuses to even think about letting him go.

_Enjolras… His best friend, his comrade in arms, his brother in all but blood standing on the podium as his dreams for a free France in which all; bourgeois and gamin alike were equal fell from his virgin lips. The gloriously furious revolutionary archangel standing on the podium bathed in a halo of light as a stubbornly red dawn bled itself slowly over the coldly symmetrical buildings of the Capital as the cold, red light seemed to catch him, caress him, ignite him until his whole being burned with the passionate flames of Hope and Life and Liberty. A shout… A panicked, furious roar of disbelieving, anguished pain and loss as their golden leader was forced to his knees; the wide, cerulean blue orbs that were barely visible through the slowly forming rainbow mask of brutal bruising now dark with fear as his hands were forced behind his back and the sickening snap of fragile ligaments being stamped on by a hobnailed boot rent the air like a gunshot earning the Official a sobbing, strangled roar of pain filled rage he needed as the stench of Chloroform seemed to overpower him and no.. No…. No… Not Enjolras…. This isn't happening… This couldn't be happening… Not now… Make this all a dream and I'll wake up… Just a nightmare and I'll wake up…. Please…. I've got to wake up… _

_But still he sees the fiery beacon of light and life, the bursting blaze of flame being extinguished with as much care as a hand being cupped over a candle as he watched in disbelieving horror as the blazingly beautiful marble God slumped, apparently lifeless against the vice like grip of the Official… 'Promise me 'Ferre, if anything should happen; you and Courfeyrac will get the others out alive. Get out of the city… Go… Go to the safe house… Use the back routes… Just get out my friend… Keep the others safe! Please… Please don't worry about me… Just go! Please Mon Ami… We'll soon each other soon Mon Cher… Promise….' _

_No… No Enjolras… Oh Mon Petit… I am so sorry Mon Frere… I failed… I'm so sorry… Just hold on... We will find you, I promise; but please, hold on…._

_Not their blazingly beautiful Apollo, their Icarus, the flame of Liberty incarnate, the light and life of the resistance; his oldest and closest friend whom he has known since infancy; since those distant, blissful Pre-War days when their lives were lived in a summer haze of chasing each other down the leafy avenues, of reading Combeferre's fathers illegal copies of Rousseau, Robespierre, Desmoulins and Danton; antique texts whose pages burst with the passionate flames of Liberty by shadowy lamplight in the library, texts whose words of a brighter, more hopeful tomorrow to all who fought for freedom had branded themselves like fire across their eager minds; clutched at their very souls until they too were ignited; they too burnt with the blazing beauty of Freedom's fire until…_

Combeferre tries desperately to shake the memories off, tries to pull himself together as Eponine hugs him closer and he feels the warm, solid comfort of fingers which he guesses are Jehan's underneath his own; but they obstinately refuse to do his bidding. They stay; stubborn and unmovable as he feels long, calloused, nimble fingers begin to card themselves through his hair; the whispered stream of verses and epithets sounding more sweet than anything he has heard all night falling unheeded into his hair. 'It's all right 'Ferre. It's going to be all right. I've got you, I'm here,' Eponine's voice is choked as from somewhere he hears the creak of a door being pushed open and the sound of Bossuet's voice filtering softly from the tiny living room across the passage.

'Signal's back on'. The sound of Bossuet and Feuilly's voices filtering through along the cramped passageway from the tiny sitting room cum study seem a long way off as he dimly hears the scraping of chairs being pushed back and the creaking of still aching muscles contracting and releasing themselves as eight bodies slowly rise from their places. The pressure of calloused fingers tracing the line of his cheek makes him start slightly as he blinks his eyes painfully back into focus as they fall onto Jehan; whose wide, honey coloured eyes are alive with compassionate concern.

'D'you…' He trails off; an uncertainty so utterly unlike the Romantic, Revolutionary poet that Combeferre knows tugging at the unspoken syllables like some great, invisible magnetic force. He shakes his head and removes his glasses; passing a hand over his eyes which sting with a crushing sense of exhaustion that only now he is beginning to feel begins to creep over him as the adrenaline from the Rally and running across half the Capital slowly starts to ebb out of his aching muscles. _'Not now. I… I don't think I can face it just yet… I'm sorry Mon Ami…'_

Jehan nods in silent understanding and makes to stand, pushing himself onto his haunches as his fingers linger for a fraction of a second longer over Combeferre's cheek; silently relishing in the warmth emanating from every pore of lightly freckled skin as the familiar piano cords signalling the start of the news dance through the sudden silence followed by the newsreader; an employee of the Capital; the personification of blank faced, silently obedient 'model citizenship' which all citizens were told that they should aspire to achieve through hard work and undying compliance to the Capital began to read off the headlines in the bored, flat monotone that has ruled their lives ever since the War.

Combeferre feels his eyes slip shut as he leans back against the chair, welcoming the temporary darkness behind his eyelids as he desperately trying to block out the droning monotony of the newsreaders' voice and yet finding it impossible as Eponine continues to card her fingers through his hair; a steady, nonsensical stream of verses, facts and epithets making his whole world shrink into the weight and security of her arms wrapped around his trembling body, of the faint notes of her perfume that still cling to her skin, of a warmth and a security that he knows will only be complete if and when they find Enjolras and their fragile band of revolutionary dreamers can become united once more; safe and whole and pure in the knowledge of their friendship.

_Oh Enjolras… Mon Petit… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… We will find you Mon Petit Ange, wherever you are, wherever They've taken you… Just hold on… Please hold on…_

His desperate mental mantra is shattered suddenly by the sound of Bahorel swearing loudly at the tiny television screen and the scampering of feet along the passageway as Gavroche crashes back into the kitchen; his blue-grey eyes huge with sudden, inexplicable fear. 'Gavroche?' Eponine's voice is suddenly tight with incomprehension as the younger boy pauses in the doorway; babbling over his words so quickly that in his state of utter exhaustion Combeferre can only just make out disjointed phrases that initially make no sense.

'Enjolras…Selection…News…Capital… Council… Officials…I…' He pauses for breath and glances up at them; his wide eyes still fuzzy with hastily blinked back sleep filled with a sudden, pleading desire to be understood as he holds Eponine's gaze; silent, silver tears pooling amid every finely worked strand of blue-grey brilliance. _No… No… No, No, No, No!_

And they do understand. All to well; it seems as Eponine's face is suddenly slack with shock, her eyes wide as she trips blindly over to her younger brother and crouches down before him, one hand reaching up to brush a stray curl of hair out of his eyes; the other gripping the trembling shoulder in a silent, desperate act of reassurance.

_ Gavroche… Just a boy… A child of twelve who has seen what no child of that age should be held witness to and yet…_

They stay there for a moment that feels like an eternity but in reality is only the length of a ragged, tearstained breath before Gavroche swallows thickly and tries again. 'The Selection's happening tonight. It's on the news and… And…' He pauses for breath and shakes his head; silent tears pouring from his eyes as he utters the eight words that would shatter Combeferre's already fragile world beyond the point of foreseeable repair. 'They've got Enjolras. He's one of the Selected…' His voice tails away into a badly supressed sob as he buries his head into Eponine's chest and in that moment Combeferre feels what little he had left of his old world fall away into the darkness of oblivion and he is left; scrabbling at straws, refusing to believe it because it can't be happening, it can't! And yet it can and it is and…

Combeferre can feel the heat of Eponine's gaze on him; the fear etched through every strand of dark hazel brilliance palpable as she silently begs him not to do anything too rash and yet how can he not when it is the Selection; the one event in the Capital's calendar dreaded by every Citizen; a two night spectacle of the Council's complete and total control over its' citizens; a selection of those passionate, foolhardy martyrs who dared to speak out against the Regime were made to pledge their allegiance to the Council as all their fire, all their hopeful light and life was slowly sucked from their bodies in front of a live audience until they become part of the Council's workforce; dull eyed, dull thinking machine like bodies; programmed only to do the bidding of the Council and slowly working their way up the ranks of dull, passionless nonentities; devoid of all their fire that kept the hope and light of freedom alive for their fellow Citizens…

_No… No… Not the Selection… Not now… Not Enjolras… This isn't happening… It can't be happening… Make this a nightmare and I'll wake up… Please… I've got to wake up… No… No… No… Oh Mon Petit… Mon Cher… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…_

Somehow he finds himself on his feet and moving towards the door that Gavroche has conveniently left ajar. Every step seems to last a lifetime as he forces his legs to keep moving, keep living even though both of them feel as if they have been plunged into wet lead and refuse to do his bidding. _It's not true. It can't be true. Please God… Please let it not be true… Please… _He reaches the shadowy darkness of the passageway before he realises that he has truly moved; his palms suddenly slick with sweat as his nerveless fingers scrabble for the cold, wooden security of the doorknob as he leans against the cool, unpolished wood; desperately trying to regain control over his ragged breathing as his heart thumps in a painfully fast rhythm; straining against his ribcage.

Faintly he can hear the blare of the tiny, television screen; the noise muffled by the wood mixed with the rising and falling crescendo of voices which make no sense as his suddenly sweaty grip on the door knob tightens and he forces his weight against it; hearing the hinges groan in audible protest as they slowly pull themselves apart. '…. _The judge's final scores are in and it is now my great pleasure and privilege to announce the eight lucky nominees for the Annual Selection…' _The Newsreader pauses and glances up from his notes; the emphasis on the word 'lucky' making Combeferre want to vomit; a sickeningly enthusiastic, utterly fake smile plastered over his features as the tiny countdown clock on the side of the screen begins to tick; each strip of red that signalled another second feeling a lifetime to Combeferre as he stands framed in the doorway; hardly daring to breathe; hoping against hope that this is just a dream, that he is going to wake up soon and feel Enjolras' solidly comforting warmth rising beside him, that this doesn't have to be real… Dimly he can hear Bahorel on the phone to someone; he doesn't know who; but he hazards a guess that it's either François or Bertrand, desperately wanting more information on the situation going on in the centre of the Capital.

'Damn it!' The fighter whirls around from his place by the window; his battered, bruised face looking all the more menacing in the flickering, early morning light as he throws the phone across the small coffee table standing in front of the window in a fit of rage and begins to pace; his thick fingers running themselves feverishly through his receding mop of gingery brown hair as he sends a furious glare at the television screen and in the part of his brain that can still understand such things; Combeferre is sure that he is wanting to do nothing more than see the newsreader's blank, jarringly fake smile smash itself into a heap of smashed, white plastic.

'Why the hell…' He breaks off suddenly at the sight of Combeferre standing framed in the door and stops abruptly; shaking his head silently; wide, dark eyes pooling with unspoken, utterly alien emotion as his feet continue their spontaneous journey pacing across the carpet; his every move watched by the terrified gaze of the seven faces before him; all in various stages of emotive, exhausted fear as the last vestiges of the clocks' blank, white face were slowly swallowed by the red timer. _No… No… No Bahorel… It's not true… It can't be true… Please Mon Ami… Please… Please tell me I'm dreaming…._

Combeferre feels his body sink against the door as the look Bahorel is giving him; his battered face suddenly dark with anguished, apologetic pain finally sinks in as his knees; suddenly unable to take his weight threaten to buckle; the shaking grip grasping at the sweat soaked door knob relaxing unconsciously; and yet knowing that it is the only thing that is going to keep him from falling back into the dark oblivion that is tugging tantalizingly at the corners of his suddenly blank brain. _No…_

'Combeferre! 'Ferre… 'Ferre… Please look at me…' The sound of Courfeyrac's voice seems to come from a long way off as his brain struggles to process what the newsreader has just said; what the weird, metallic beeping noise from the on-screen timer signifies, why Grantaire has his head buried in Jehan's jacket as his shoulders begin to shake with the weight of supressed emotion as he dimly feels the warm security of calloused fingers cupping themselves around his chin; the soothing regularity of the centre's heartbeat pressed up against his cheek as Courfeyrac sinks to his knees and pulls him close. Dimly he feels the centre's fingers raking themselves through his hair as he squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face against the solidity of Courfeyrac's shoulder as the sobs come; strangled, choking sobs forcing themselves through a mouth dry with fear and shock unheeded as he feels the salty stabs of pain assault the back of his eyelids and doesn't bother trying to restrain them.

'Hush Mon Cher', Courfeyrac rocks him back; one trembling hand tangled itself within his hair, the fingers shaking with supressed emotion as suddenly salt stained lips brush his forehead in a silent, desperate act of reassurance. 'I know… I know little one…'

Of course Courfeyrac would know he reasons dimly; it's his job to know things; or was, in the distant days before the War when they were all studying at University and Courfeyrac was a fledgling lawyer wanting to open up his own law firm before It All Went Wrong and the beautiful, red brick University with its' myriad of rooms and turrets of learning was reinstated as a Factory for the Capital's workforce…

Combeferre shudders at the memory as he feels the dark tendrils slowly creep back into oblivion; one hand fisting itself painfully into the linen of Courfeyrac's shirt like a sailor clinging to a scrap of driftwood amongst a storm tossed sea. From somewhere he feels the sound of footsteps crossing the room; tentative, unsure steps as another body drops down beside him; the warm, solid, unknown weight smelling of peppermints as the cool weight of Joly's fingers rest themselves against his pulse point as the hand works itself slowly up his face, softly tracing the line of his cheek as they reach his forehead and a ragged, tear stained breath is exhaled. 'You need to rest Mon Ami… Please?' His voice is choked with badly suppressed tears as Combeferre shakes his head in a weak act of defiance, even though his whole being is suddenly screaming at him to rest. To let the others sort it out, let himself be lost in the comforting darkness of blissful oblivion for a few hours; but deep down he knows he can't. Knows that he owes that much to his oldest, closest friend, his brother in all but blood and that he can't give up now.

'No.' The sound of his voice seems oddly alien to him now; as if he has been detached from his body and is watching the action from above; able to hear and see and feel emotions but unable to do anything to change Fate's perverted course. 'No Joly… I… I can't… I can't lose him… I've got to do something… I promised!' He can feel his voice threaten to break again; the words choking themselves against the slowly rising barricade of tearstained pain that is forcing its' way through his throat and making the idea of coherent speech seem momentarily impossible but he forces them through despite the pain; willing his friends to understand.

'We can't do anything yet though,' Jehan pipes up from his position at the edge of the sofa; his voice muffled through Grantaire's thicket of ebony curls; his eyes wide with a mixture of pain and exhaustion as he hugs the crumbling cynic close and flicks his gaze up to Bahorel who is still standing by the television which no one is paying any attention to; its' noise a faint, vaguely irritating buzzing as the News switches onto the compulsory singing of the supposedly rousing Anthem of the Capital; which in Jehan's view was a waste of good lyricism and just a way of the Council making sure that every citizen swore their undying allegiance to their oppressors. Combeferre wonders why someone just doesn't turn it off; and as if catching his thought, Muschietta untangles herself from she was been sitting with Bossuet and crosses the floor to switch off the sickly, rousing singing echoing from the live speaker system in the heart of the Capital that blared through television box across the city; giving the television set a long, hard glare; as if it has personally offended her in some way. Glancing at the poet, Bahorel shakes his head and sighs; running his hand yet again through his hair as he crosses the room and sinks into the only available seat.

'No, we can't do anything yet. Not until François and Bertrand get here and that could take hours with the Capital being the definition of bedlam at the moment.' He sighs again and Combeferre is struck at just how exhausted their usually indestructible, fiercely passionate fighter looks and feels his heart twist painfully in his chest as he takes in the bruising that is caressing Bahorel's lower lids; the dried blood blooming from the fighters' swollen, bleeding bottom lip that is slowly oxidising against the fleshy skin, the faint beginnings of what promises to be a splendid black eye as he rests his chin in his hands and gazes out at the slowly lightening window.

_Bahorel… Oh Bahorel… It should be you resting my friend, not me. I promised him I'd get you all to safety and I… I couldn't… I didn't... You… I'm so sorry Mon Cher…_

'We all need to go to bed.' The sound of Eponine's voice makes him start slightly as he raises his tear stained gaze from the security of Courfeyrac's shoulder slowly as he sees her standing in the doorway; her mane of inky darkness tumbling out of its' messy ponytail in a waterfall of inky ebony; her eyes wide and sparkling with unshed tears as she catches his gaze and shakes her head. '_I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…' _Bahorel nods at her quietly, his gaze flicking momentarily over in his direction; evidently relieved as she crosses the room and drops to her knees before him; slowly prising his clutching hands from Courfeyrac and pulling him into a tight embrace that holds the faint whiff of coffee and cheap perfume and dark eyed safety as they continue to hold onto each other like sailors clinging to scraps of driftwood amongst a storm tossed sea; refusing to let the other go.

'Oh my love,' she whispers into his hair; her voice brimming with exhausted, compassionate emotion as he leans in gratefully to her touch; feeling the warm weight of her fingers silently tracing the lines of his cheek as he mumbles an inaudible apology; hating himself for doing this to her. For putting her through so much pain when she has already seen too much, experienced too much and yet still survived; safe and whole and pure in the knowledge of her friendship with Les Amis de l'ABC; the passionate boys she now can call her brothers. 'Don't be sorry, silly.' She is smiling despite herself; he knows as she pulls him tighter and rests her head on the bony plateau of his shoulder blade and he is suddenly reminded of Joly and how they had fallen into each other's arms in the yard, only hours before. Only hours? It feels like a lifetime ago and still he allows himself to be held; still allows himself to be rocked into blissful oblivion; finally secure in the knowledge that something of his old life has remained with him as Eponine's lips brush a blissfully brief kiss over his forehead and at last, at long last; he surrenders himself to the soft, warm darkness of Morpheus' spell.

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain and will keep me going for Reading Week! (I don't think I will ever understand quite why it is called Reading Week when all we are expected to do is write essays having already done the reading, but then again university logic never ceases to amaze me!)**_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_

_**Note on text**_

**_To all those who have read Stagepageandscreen's wonderful Dystopia AU fic titled '(Un) natural selection' I know this sounds a lot like it- especially the idea of the Selection; believe me; it wasn't planned and I really hope she will forgive me! _**


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N: Another chapter for all the amazing people who have decided to read, review, follow and favourite this story- you are all incredible and I honesty have no words left to say how grateful I am to all of you for sticking with this frankly weird piece of writing! _**

**_Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC and Stagepageandscreen's wonderful Dystopia AU fic titled (Un)natural Selection into something cohesive- please don't sue me!_**

Chapter 5

'_There are moments when, whatever the position of the body, the soul is on its knees.' – Victor Hugo (Les Miserables)_

He's tired. So very, very tired. The exhaustion seems to pull at him; caressing his aching limbs, softly supporting his broken body back into the sweet, cold, blissful blackness of oblivion, which try as he might he can't seem to avoid. Everything hurts. The numbing, fiery agony that had exploded from the cigarette burns has since reduced until it is a dull, throbbing ache that is slowly settling itself like a shroud over his shivering shade. How long has he been in here? He doesn't know. Time has no meaning here and yet it should because he needs to know how much longer he has left before They come for him for the final time. How much longer he has to keep fighting Them before at last, at long last he can finally let go and let himself be lost in the sweet, blissful oblivion of nothingness.

'_Don't give up yet Enjolras.' _A voice, whether it's inside his head or in reality, he doesn't know. '_Don't give up yet my Phoenix. Please?' _Who was that? The voice sounds distinctly feminine, but he knows deep down that he must be going mad if he truly believes that Patria; that fiery beacon of hope, life and liberty is really here in the cold, blank world of the Capital. '_Please little one, please hold on. Just for a little while longer, I promise.' _But he can't. He doesn't have the strength to hold on, or fight any more; even though he knows that he has to fight; he has to keep fighting Them until one day, on one blissfully evanescent day his beautiful, fiery Phoenix will be able to spread her blood splattered wings and fly in a blaze of flame out of the ashes of the old Bourgeois tyranny and into the cold, clear land of peaceful freedom.

'_Please Apollo. Please don't give up yet.' _Grantaire? Desperately he shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the look of pure, undiluted terror leaping high within the cynic's emerald eyes that has branded itself like fire in the once safe haven behind his eyelids; barely able to suppress a whispered wince of pain as his neck cricks, because Grantaire couldn't be here; not his wine soaked cynic whose heckling and snide remarks back in the candlelit, wine soaked safety of the Musain or the Corinth that had stunk of a blissful, fraternal companionship which he knows he will never feel again threatened to undo his very foundations despite his desperate attempts to stay aloof. '_Please hold on 'pollo.' _Futilely he tries to call out to them, savouring the bittersweet taste of these heartachingly familiar syllables which dance and die on his tongue; cut short by the thick, wet pressure of the gag that is still thrust firmly between his chattering teeth.

'_Bahorel… Bossuet… Combeferre… Courfeyrac… Feuilly… Gavroche… Grantaire… Jehan… Joly… Oh Mes Amis… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry Patria… It's all my fault…' _

'_Please hold on 'Jolras. We're going to get you out of there Mon Petit, I promise, just hold on.' _No… No… Not Combeferre… Sudden, unwanted pricks of painful emotion stab themselves through his retinas as he remembers the look of dark eyed agony etched like ink over his best friend's face as he feels himself being dragged away; desperately trying to release himself from the thick, unwelcome hands of the official but finding it impossible as the stench of Chloroform overpowers him once more. He lets the tears fall; relishing in the salty pain that slices through his cheeks, in the very fact that something is at last real in this unknown, bloody Hell that he has found himself thrown into.

Footsteps. Tramping, hobnailed footfalls that send a sudden flash of panicked fear coursing through him as he tries to lift his eyes to the noise; but the once bright cerulean blue orbs feel as if they have been slammed shut by a force which he can't quite place and try as he might, they refuse to open fully. Hands on his face; thick, unknown yet not unwelcome fingers caressing the lines of his cheek as a sudden breath is exhaled, a muffled curse is uttered and a stab of pain penetrates his cheek as a fingernail digs into the tender, marble skin. Dimly he feels the hands working down to shake his shoulders, slapping his face as a voice he thinks he knows but can't quite place continues to say something over and over again; the tone thick with badly suppressed, pleading tears as it continues to say a word, a name that he knows he should understand but he's so cold and so tired and…

'_Let me go… Please… Please just let me go… I can't… I didn't… I failed them… It's my fault... It's all my fault… Please… Just let me go…'_

But the hands continue to shake him as he feels his head fall painfully into the unknown chest as thick fingers smelling of fire and smoke and freedom reach up to card themselves in a feverish, desperate motion through his blood caked, sweat soaked curls. 'Please Enjolras… Please… Please wake up Mon Petit… I need you… We need you… All of us… 'Ferre… 'Feyrac… Grantaire… Everyone's been so worried… Just wake up… Please?'

Thick, trembling fingers cupping themselves around his chin, working their way around the pressure of the gag that is still forcing his mouth into a painful grimace as he desperately tries to shake off the crushing cloak of dark oblivion that has enveloped his shattered soul so completely and still, even now refuses to let him go. He knows that voice; he realises dully. It's a friend's voice, not a close friend but a friend all the same as a distant memory which he thought that he had long forgotten raises its' head slowly out of the drugged darkness of his pain filled brain…. But drugged and exhausted as he is; he cannot find a name to match the voice that continues to claw at the stubbornly irremovable cloud of senseless nothingness which has encloaked his broken soul for so long and even now refuses to let him go.

Something deliciously icy cold being dribbled through the gag onto a thick, barren, burning tongue that makes his whole body shiver with suppressed exhaustion as he feels himself lean in closer to the unknown touch; his whole being suddenly desperate for more. Dimly he feels the thick fingers set about trying to undo the gag; whispered apologies falling unheeded from trembling lips as without warning a sudden volcanic rush of indescribable, burning agony gushes from his barren mouth that stinks of blood, salt and fear. Faintly, painfully he feels his stomach contract and release itself over and over again as his weight falls onto his broken wrists still imprisoned within the rusted manacles fettered high above his head.

'That's it little one,' trembling, sweat soaked fingers card themselves through his blood caked curls; the rough, harsh voice soft and yet choked with tears as he feels tears of his own stab painfully within his own eyes; burning his aching retinas as he lets them fall; desperately trying to work out who has taken this blissfully compassionate pity on his fractured soul. But thinking, like talking feels like an impossible dream at the moment as the words, the questions dance and die against a hot, heavy tongue lying thick and dormant with a bloody mouth.

Everything hurts. Faintly he feels yet another spasm of agonising painful nausea wash over him as the sound of vomit being released out of a burning mouth echoes eerily off the bare stone wall; the thick, muscular arms continuing to hold him; support him as he could not support them and it is all his fault… All his fault… If he hadn't… If he had just…

Another strangled sob escapes parched, blood caked, bitten lips without his knowledge as he feels himself being pressed closer towards the hard, dependable chest; the soothing regularity of the unknown heartbeat pressed up against a burning, salt stained cheek feeling even sweeter than the icy metallic coldness that is pressed once more to his lips and he sips greedily; silently relishing in the numbing chill stealing over his broken limbs as the voice continues to talk to him in a voice that is choked with tears; a never ending stream of facts, verses and epithets falling unheeded into his hair as he desperately tries to cling to the flickering flame of consciousness that is slowly but surely being pulled out a failing marble grasp.

'That's it my Phoenix', the voice whispers and finally, finally the name comes to him; the syllables scraping painfully on a burning tongue as he slowly finds the strength to lift his head and gaze through eyes that are little more than slits of glacial glass into the battered, tear stained face of his saviour.

'Bertrand?' Bertrand nods silently; the small, dark, beady eyes glistening with unshed tears as he begins to go about trying to free the fallen Icarus from his chains; muttering furiously under his breath. 'Wh… Why… You...'

He tails off with a sudden grunting shout of pain as the taught tendons in his arms are suddenly released and his body crumples against the wall, his whole body ablaze with agony as he is slowly met by trembling, capable hands gently lowering him until he is sitting with his back pressed up painfully against the cold, stone wall; blinking back sudden, unwanted tears that spill without warning over the mask of brutal bruising and trying to get his bearings as the world spins weirdly through his shattered, blood soaked vision.

The sensation of a hard, calloused hand on his shoulder; the warm weight of trembling digits grounding him firmly in a reality that he hasn't felt part of for what feels like an eternity as his broken psyche slowly, painfully, finally allows him to come back into reality. _'It's all right Enjolras. I'm here. I've got you.'_

_Bertrand, the leader of the closest fellow resistance group who had taken him under his wing, when aged eighteen and just about to sit his final exams at the Capital's compulsory boarding school for all male citizens, he had walked out; unable to withhold his voice from bursting out at the injustices of the Capital, of the ferocity of the Regime, of the tyrannical fist that the Council and the Bourgeois had clenched both the Capital and its' weakly struggling citizens in and refused to let it go until all complied; all voices of dissent were firmly squashed, all talk of the bright, white land of peaceful freedom that one day his beloved Patria could reclaim as her own were completely and utterly extinguished. _

_Dim memories of candlelit hours spent holed up over illegal, water stained, well -thumbed, dog- eared copies of Robespierre, Rousseau, Desmoulins and Danton as the words that spoke so passionately of the flame of liberty seemed to brand themselves against his soul like fire._

_The flickering flames of revolution leaping high within shining cerulean blue orbs as the safe house's tiny kitchen was suddenly ablaze with the colour and vitality of Bertrand's words, of his own views, of the views of his friends who had come round bringing their passionate talents to their table; eight bright, eager, hopeful minds all believing in the same religion, the same passionate ideal had been lit inside him so long ago and continued to burn as he strove for progress, for change, for understand as his once fledgling views that needed care and instruction he couldn't deny it; but views, ideals that had caressed his soul with their fire stained fingertips, softly brushed against his heart like the bloody, fiery wings of the Phoenix rising gracefully out of the ashes of the old Bourgeois tyranny in the portrait drawn by Grantaire set high above the blocked up fireplace. _

_His fighter… His survivor… His guide… His centre… His artisan… His cynic… His scout… His poet… His medic… The eight, bright, hopeful souls whom he will never see again… Oh my friends my friends, don't ask me what your sacrifice was for!_

'What happened?' The voice is taught with badly suppressed, fearful urgency as he feels the weight of his bloody curls falling into his eyes; the weight of Bertrand's dark eyed gaze alive with worry threatening to pierce his very soul, to tear down all the carefully constructed walls that he has so carefully built around his fragile conscious, only to feel them fall at the slightest touch.

'What did They do to you?' He shakes his head slowly; sucking in an involuntary gasp of pain as the taught tendons of his neck contract as he squeezes his eyes shut; welcoming the sudden, blinding flash of pain that comes from the action as he allows his world to shrink into the weight of Bertrand's arms keeping his upright, of the stink of fire that clings to his body like a second skin as finally the words come; struggling through a brain still numb with shock. He doesn't want to think about the past few hours, the last few days, but he can't stop himself. The memories are too painful, too desperately raw and still they come; clamouring at his fragile psyche like vultures circling a carcass; biding their time, waiting until he is once again at his most vulnerable before they plan their next attack.

Bertrand waits, his fingers slowly tracing the lines of the knife; dancing through the lines and bends of his shoulder blades; caressing the marble skin back into safety; softly sweeping over the cigarette burns as once again he sees the flickering, guttering ember moving with painful slowness towards him; feels himself threaten to freeze; his eyes desperately wanting to slam themselves shut against the sudden, blinding flash of indescribable, excruciating agony, hears the Official's low, soft laugh ringing through screaming ears…

'Electricity…' He finally chokes out; the word grating painfully against his tongue as he pulls his knees up to his chest; ignoring the blinding flash of unbearable agony that courses through the suddenly taught muscles.' Electric…' He stops, furiously trying to bite the words out and yet finding it impossible as Bertrand feels a swooping rush of painful, palpable fury surge through him as he takes in the broken marble God huddled up beside him, the Icarus, the flame incarnate of the Revolution, the Phoenix Prince of light and life and liberty now reduced to nothing more than a shivering shell of his former, fiery glory.

'Electric shocks… Knife… Cigarette... I… I tried... I couldn't… I'm sorry…' Bertrand shakes his head; desperately trying not to dwell on the flood of excruciatingly painful mental images flooding through his brain in a blood stained, broken rainbow of colour and pulls him closer; relishing in the warm weight rising through his arms as he remembers how together he and Combeferre had soothed the many and frequent night time terrors Enjolras had suffered from; even as a gangly, long limbed yet graceful adolescent with the blazing orbs of glacial beauty now marred by the rainbow mask of brutal bruising until they are little more than slits burning through the darkness as he huddles closer; his whole body trembling from a mixture of exhaustion, suppressed pain and badly restrained, choked up fear as a trembling, sweat soaked marble hand fists itself within the soft security of Bertrand's jacket; an unspoken yet painfully simple question blossoming through the silence. '_What about the others? Did… Did Combeferre and Courfeyrac…? Are they…? Are they safe…?' _

Gently, he allows a lone finger to trace the lines of Enjolras' shoulder blades in response; allowing his touch to rise through the marble skin; the digit barely shivering over the burn marks as the broken marble God jerks away with a hiss of pain and glares at him; the furious embers of passionate life and light flickering pitifully within the once blazing eyes of azure blue beauty. 'They're safe Mon Petit, don't worry. They're at the safe house with Eponine, 'Chetta and Gavroche; it's all right.'

_But how can he not worry? How can he possibly not worry when it was his job as a father, a leader, a protector of his fragile band of revolutionary dreamers to protect them, to bring them safe and whole and pure in the knowledge of their friendship, of their shared passion of the old battle slogans, of their thirst for knowledge into the bright, white land of peaceful freedom where they would be able to watch as his beloved Patria could spread her blood splattered, fiery wings and soar in a blaze of flame into the cold, clear land of peaceful Freedom?_

The sudden tramping stamp of hobnailed boots falling against the bare stone floorboards mixed with a harsh bark of unknown laughter as Enjolras slowly lifts his head from Bertrand's chest and struggles to pull himself from the older man's embrace as he leans his whole weight against the wall to pull himself upright with a audible grunting hiss of pain as he collapses back into his saviours' arms. Casting a furious glare at the thankfully still locked door; Bertrand reaches up to pull him back into his arms; watching as a sudden flickering tremor of fear flashes over the bruised marble features and wishing that Combeferre was here with him; even though he knows that bringing Combeferre or any of the other Amis de l'ABC into the main capital building when they are all under arrest for crimes of High Treason against the Capital and the Council would be akin to suicide for all of them and that Enjolras would never forgive him the loss of his friends; even if it meant the loss of his own life. _Oh Mon Petit Ange… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry..._

Faintly, he can feel the ragged, disjointed beating of the once glorious revolutionary archangel's heart thudding in a desperate, painfully quick rhythm against his chest; the frantic iambs going much too quickly to be healthy as without warning, thick, unwelcome hands have him by the collar and he is hauled to his feet; the icy cold metallic beauty of a revolver slotting itself with sickening speed against his temple. Desperately he tries to twist away but the hands holding him are too strong as he futilely tries to reach for Enjolras; but the shaking marble digits are ripped from his grip and he hears a gut wrenching shout of pain filled rage combined with the high, eerily cold laugh of an Official as the slice of a safety catch being released rips through his suddenly screaming brain.

'Pleased to see me again, pretty boy?'

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! This chapter was the definition of impossible to write; not helped I don't think by the fact that I've had three important essays on the go and a mountain of reading to get through so any comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc will be most welcome!**_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the wonderful people who have believed in this story- you are all truly incredible and I thank you from the bottom of my heart! This chapter would not have been possible without Guineamania and her wonderful motivation skills- yet another person whom I am utterly indebted to- thank you!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris so how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC and stagepageandscreen's wonderful AU dystopia on which this is based into something cohesive! Please don't sue me!**_

Chapter 6

The phone call comes at 6:15 am the next morning. The house is still; the eleven souls still locked within the deep, dark recesses of Morpheus' spell at last oblivious to the tirade of painfully clear memories that continue to assault them. The only audible sound except from the exhalations of soft, sleep filled breath comes from the slow dripping of the tap at the bathroom sink which in the course of this seemingly endless night; someone has forgotten to turn off. All are quiet. All are at last at peace as a cold, grey dawn slowly creeps its' way up and out of nights' inky carpet and a faded dappled light begins to peep through the leaves of the surrounding trees.

All except for one. Jean Prouvaire is sitting at the kitchen table; his hoodie pulled down over the knees of his tartan pyjama bottoms which he has tucked under himself; clutching a pen in his hand and a scrap of paper on the table as he watches the sun slowly slip up from the indigo horizon; trying to think. There is a rapidly cooling mug of herbal tea on the bare wooden table beside him which he can't really remember making; although the scent of lemon and ginger- his favourite by a mile although Courfeyrac swears by Cinnamon Chai is making him feel slightly lightheaded as he furiously blinks his eyes back into focus onto the slowly unravelling poem in front of him and tries to work out where to go with it next.

It's not much he knows; nothing that is begun at 5:30 in the morning under the effects of about six hours of sleep combined with caffeine can really account to much; the metre is all wrong and according to the clock on the wall above his head, he has apparently spent at least half an hour trying to squeeze words in order to make them fit the flowing lyricism of iambic tetrameter and trimetre much against their will. They fight him; straining desperately against the boundaries of form and structure, bursting through the confines of metre and rhythm and although he has tried drumming out trochaic 'feet' out on the table so many times his fingers now ache; the scaffolding behind the imagery that drips like honey off the nib of his pen still doesn't work.

Why? Why don't they work? Why don't they fit? Almost unconsciously he feels his head drop into his hands; his eyes itching with a tiredness that is slowly beginning to creep its' way through his muscles; its' invisible caress softly dancing over his eyes as he rubs at them furiously with the heel of his right hand; desperately trying to stay awake. He feels the pen fall from his suddenly relaxed grip and clatter away as his thick, tired fingers begin to card themselves almost mechanically through his hair; softly pulling thin waterfalls of auburn out of his messy braid. _Think Jehan. _But he can't. All his brain can truly focus on are the images, the memories of the last twenty-four hours and try as he might; he cannot seem to make the painfully clear flashes of light and colour that continue to plague his psyche disappear. It is almost as if he is watching one of those wonderfully antique black and white films slowed right down so that every action; every movement; every breath is as jagged and as painfully clear as shards of glass and there is nothing he can do about it.

_Enjolras standing proudly defiant on the podium as his dreams for a free France, for a world without poverty, hunger or oppression leaped high within a palpable inferno of glacial fire through the blazing cerulean blue orbs as he enthralled the crowd with his dreams; their dreams; their combined passion bursting in waves of heat through the marble casing. The gloriously furious revolutionary archangel bathed in a halo of light as a slow, red dawn slowly bled itself over the coldly symmetrical buildings of the capital; the cold glowing light seeming to catch him, caress him, ignite him until his whole being burst with the leaping, licking flames of freedom… A shout… A gunshot cracking the sudden stillness like a sledgehammer cleaving its' way through ice… A furious, panicked shout of disbelieving horror as two bodies launched themselves towards the podium but too late… _

_Their angel was falling, struggling, fighting through the crushing, bearlike grip of the Official who had him in a headlock as the stench of chloroform threatened to overwhelm him as he hears the sickening crunch of knucklebones on alabaster brilliance; sees the shockingly scarlet blood blooming through the broken nose as a sudden haze of tears which he cannot blink back threatens to cloud his vision… Courfeyrac somehow managing to grab his hand and dragging him away from the chaos as Bahorel, Feuilly and Bossuet desperately try to restrain Combeferre and Grantaire from running into their early, inevitable death; shouting something high above the surging mass of suddenly panicked citizens desperately trying to escape the line of the Official's fire that he can't make out; the warm, solid comfort of the centre's shaking fingers beneath his own the only thing that is keeping him from falling into the dark abyss of disbelieving horror that is tugging tantalizingly at the corners of his brain…. _

_The weight of Grantaire's thicket of greasy locks falling through his fingers as the cynic crumpled into his chest; his shoulders heaving with the weight of supressed emotion as the broken sobs soaked his jacket; his whispered words of comfort that are choked with his own tears falling unheeded as he watched Bahorel continue his pacing; his broken, battered face slack with shock as the sickly, rousing singing of the Anthem of the Capital blared itself through the television speaker system in a blaring blaze of stomach curdling unified propaganda. 'I'm not going to tell you it's all right R because it's not… It's not… It's so… so very far from all right but… We will find him… We've got to find him… I promise…' _

_Combeferre collapsing against the doorframe; his darkly handsome face white with shock; his wide, dark eyes shielded by wire-framed spectacles huge and shining with unshed tears as he crumpled into a half sitting, half crouching position on the floor; his whole body trembling with the weight of heart shattering emotion that refused to be supressed. Not Enjolras… Not the Selection… No… It's not true… It can't be true… Please tell me it's not… Tell me that this is just a dream and I'll wake up… Please… I've got to wake up…_

_The choking pressure of the cynic's fingers clutching at his jacket as he held him close; relishing in the tearstained warmth of Grantaire's weight pressed up against him as he dimly felt his lips move, felt his tongue form words which he didn't understand as he allowed his world to shrink into the warmth and solid comfort of Grantaire's bulk while they continued to cling to each other like sailors scrabbling for a hold on a scrap of driftwood amid a storm tossed sea… The warm weight of another set of hands gently prising him away; as a capable embrace scoops him up and holds him close; the faint wafts of cinnamon, chocolate and coffee clinging to the fingertips as finally; finally he allows himself to be carried up to bed; too emotionally and physically exhausted to offer much up in protest as sleep slowly pulls her soft, dark blanket of blissful oblivion over him._

The sudden sound of footsteps on the stairs behind the kitchen door and the scraping groan of hinges being pulled apart makes him start slightly as a soft voice that is thick and sluggish with sleep breaks through the silent tirade of memories that continue to circle around his exhausted self like vultures around a carcass; biding their time, waiting until he is once again at his most vulnerable before planning their next assault as a sudden flare of light from the Capital Regulated energy efficient light bulbs makes him blink as the figure moves quietly in from the shadows of the passageway. 'Jehan? What are you doing up Mon Ami?' The voice is rough and sluggish with hastily blinked back sleep as he looks up at the pale, drawn face of Feuilly standing framed in the doorway in a hastily thrown on JDCMC hoodie that is much too small and pyjama bottoms with '_Niech żyje Polska!'_splashed all over them; emotive, exhausted concern tugging at his features as he notices the crumpled paper lying on the table in front of the poet, the frigid mug of herbal tea and smiles suddenly as the pieces begin to slip into place behind his eyes.

'Couldn't sleep hmm?' Jehan nods silently and motions for Feuilly to come in as the fan maker crosses the room; glances at the phone to see if there are any answerphone messages before pulling up the nearest chair and resting his chin in his hand as he scans the half finished poem on the table in front of them. Jehan can feel a sudden, inexplicable and yet utterly unavoidable blush creeping up his cheekbones as he watches Feuilly scan his 5:30 am rambles as the fan maker reads with his tongue poked between his teeth; dark eyes sparkling with what could be seen as pride as he turns to grin at Jehan and nods. 'A gloriously furious angel of light?' His tone is lightly teasing but the poet still feels his blush deepen as he nods and makes to the snatch the paper; but Feuilly holds it just out of his reach and raises an eyebrow in a look so utterly like Enjolras or Combeferre when he has found his friends misbehaving that Jehan has to bite back a laugh as he makes to grab at the paper once more; only just stopping his chair from flying backwards in his haste to stand.

'Give it back Feuilly! It's… It's nothing…' His tone has a sudden, irritating childish plea to it which only makes the artisan's smile widen as he reaches out a large, calloused hand that still holds the ghostly whiffs of paint and glue from his shift at the factory to ruffle Jehan's hair and is about to hand him back the paper when from across the passageway the phone rings. Both men freeze as the sound reverberates through the suddenly silent kitchen; the ghosts of their laughter echoing eerily along with the familiar, ominous tone. Jehan can feel the heat of Feuilly's gaze on him; can almost taste the sudden, sickly tang of fear that has drenched every crevice of his being as he feels sweat erupt over the back of his hands.

_No… No… It can't be… They can't have been discovered… The Official's don't call when they start a search… It can't… It's not… _Dimly he can hear the suddenly ragged thumping of his heart as it strains against his ribcage; the tiny organ suddenly frantic with a fear that he understands all too well as he sends a terrified glance in Feuilly's direction; whose eyes are fixed on the kitchen door; willing, he knows; for it not to be what they think it is; what they know it is.

1. 2. 3. 4. He begins to count his breaths; desperately trying to keep them even and yet finding it impossible as the phone clicks onto answer machine and the familiar, clipped, sickenngly sweet tones of the pre-recorded Capital employee; yet another personification of 'model citizenship' reverberate across the room; softly dripping their propagandist poison into their once safe haven.

'_I'm sorry, but the person you have called is unavailable at the moment. Please leave a message after the tone. Once you've left your message just hang up or for more options; press 1 at any time. Please be aware that The Capital exercises the right to listen into all phone calls and so any or all information will be closely monitored and stored for further observation. Thank you for your patience and cooperation. Long live the Monarchy!'_ 5. 6. 7. 8.

Jehan feels his teeth clench at the last statement and has to fight to keep himself steady as a long, steady beep is heard; followed by a sudden, ragged breath and a pause which feels like an eternity but in reality is only the length of a jarring breath as he flicks his eyes over to Feuilly who is moving slowly towards the door into the passageway; his once bright, mischievous eyes now dark with a painful mixture of confusion and fear as a voice on the other end of the line begins to speak in halting, broken sentences that a thick with a fear that Jehan and Feuilly can only guess the magnitude of.

'Bahorel… Feuilly… 'Ferre… Look mate… I… We're…' The sudden click of a safety catch being slid off makes Jehan's heart leap into his throat and settle there in a sudden, excruciatingly painful swoop of realisation; throbbing against his larynx as he feels his eyes slip shut and welcomes the darkness behind his eyelids; willing for it not to be true. _It's not true… It can't be true… That's not… He's not… He can't… He knows how dangerous it is… He wouldn't… _

But before his suddenly shocked brain can fully grasp the extent of the situation; the disembodied voice is speaking again; the desperation so heartbreakingly palpable that the poet has to bite back tears of his own as his fingers grope for the hard security of a chair in order as his knees threaten to buckle under his weight.

'They've started the Alteration… I tried… I tried to stop them and Enjolras… Oh God… Enjolras... I just… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… He's… But They told me… They've got conditions and…' A large amount of gulping, tearstained swallowing is heard and the sound of another icily metallic click of a safety catch being slid out of its' safety position. 'They want information… Just… Just tell Combeferre… Tell Bahorel…' The voice is rambling now; each syllable thick with fear, shock and guilt as it tails away into a gulping hiss of pain as the connection flickers for a second and then slowly dies into a faint, ominous metallic click.

Jehan can feel the weight of Feuilly's gaze on him; the onyx coloured eyes dark with the incomprehensible, unanswerable questions as the faint sound of footsteps on the stairs and the groaning scrape of the kitchen door being pushed open again jolts both of them out of their silent reverie. 'Feuilly? Jehan?' It's Joly; his dark eyes alive with concern as he sees their statuesque profiles half hidden in the faint morning half-light that is flickering feebly through the curtained kitchen window. 'What is it? What's… What's happened?' The medic's voice is suddenly thick with fear as he takes in the expression carved through Feuilly's face; the wide, dark eyes pooling with exhausted emotion as he makes to go the medic even though his legs feel as if they have been plunged into buckets of wet lead and refuse to do his bidding.

'Joly, I need you to to go and wake Bahorel and Courfeyrac. I… There's…' His voice falters as he casts a despairing look at Jehan who finds himself nodding despite all the rest of senses screaming at him to disagree, so that this doesn't have to be made real and yet it must as he silently wills the medic to understand even though there are parts of this strange new game of political satire of the Council's which they have unknowingly been thrown into which he doesn't understand, which he doesn't think Bertrand understands, which none of them will ever understand unless they do something and quickly.

'That was Bertrand.' Feuilly's voice is shaking now but he swallows and ploughs on regardless; dark eyes shining with a damned up waterfalls of unshed tears. 'They've got Enjolras… And… They've started the Alteration…' His voice tails off into a badly suppressed sob and Joly's eyes, if possible go even wider; the pieces flying into place behind each finely worked strand of hazel coloured brilliance as his mouth opens, closes again and Jehan can't help but think of his precious flute which had been handed down to him by his grandfather; now locked away in his cupboard back at the JDCMC and for some inexplicable reason; Schubert's Trout Symphony which his teacher; an old, disheartened ex-Official who had come to sympathise with the beliefs of the Resistance had promised that he would write out as a duet for two flutes before his next lesson.

The poet feels a sudden, inexplicable pain that has nothing to do with having had virtually no sleep clutch suddenly at his heart as he realises that now they are in hiding and wanted by the Capital; there will be no chance to go back to the JDCMC; no chance to collect his flute or his books without putting them all in more danger; no chance to thank his professor for putting up with him and his inability to read music; preferring instead to play by ear ever since his first spell as a Juvenile Detainee almost three years ago had landed him the job of stacking away music stands and re arranging desks and he had heard an illicit recording of Beethoven's 5th Symphony being played from the Music Official's office and had fallen in love instantly.

Joly is speaking again and Jehan has to forcefully drag his mind back to the present as he hears the door click suddenly shut and the sound of racing footsteps darting back up the stairs as Feuilly collapses into a chair and runs a weary hand through his hair; squeezing his eyes shut as he does so. 'D' you…' Jehan feels himself trip blindly over to the artisan and drops to his knees; reaching up to take Feuilly's free hand in his; desperately trying to squeeze sort of reassurance into the tense digits. The older man glances down at the pressure and shakes his head as Jehan continues to massage the tense, calloused fingers feeling the twin skins brush over the ghosts of paint stains and wonders when Joly and the others will finally appear.

'I don't know.' Feuilly says finally; his voice thick with resigned exhaustion as he sinks further back into the chair. 'I just don't know and we can't know… We won't know anything until…'

At that moment there is the sound of hurried footsteps; a muffled shout and Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Joly and Muschietta followed by Gavroche and Grantaire come crashing back into the living room in a babble of confused sound that Jehan cannot make out; although he is thankful that Combeferre is still asleep; the last thing the guide needs was the knowledge that his oldest, closest friend was on his way to a date with Death. 'What's happened?' Bahorel's voice is tense with urgency as his dark eyed gaze flicks from face to face; his broken nose and bleeding lip that has since oxidised into a dribbling crust of scarlet looking even more menacing in the shadows. 'Joly said something… Something about Bertrand and Enjolras and the Alteration…' He tails away; the confusion and uncertainty felt by all of them palpable as Feuilly nods silently; hating himself as Muschietta gives a small scream and buries her head in Joly's chest and Gavroche's eyes widen as an understanding that no boy of twelve should have to endure crashes over him in a silent tsunami of painful realisation.

'There was a phone call from Bertrand just now. They've…' Feuilly swallows his words and squeezes his eyes shut; futilely trying to quell the sudden barricade of painful terror that is making the idea of coherent speech impossible as he finally manages to choke the words out. 'They've started the Alteration. That's all he knows but my guess is is that they'll want both of them at least half way through the process before the Selection starts.' He shakes his head and looks up at Bahorel and Courfeyrac whose faces are dark with furious understanding at the thought of Bertrand and Enjolras; the twin flames of the revolution, their lights of life incarnate being subjected to such debilitating, dehumanising torture at the hands of the capital.

'Fucking bastards', the centre mutters darkly and Feuilly nods in agreement because damming the Capital and the Regime seems the only thing that his brain seems capable of doing at the present moment and he really doesn't want to think about what will happen if they don't act and soon.

For a moment that feels like an eternity no one speaks. No one moves. Gavroche trips blindly over to Courfeyrac who pulls him into a shaking, clutching embrace; whispered words of comfort which nobody really believes falling unheeded into the mop of dirty blonde curls. Jehan thinks suddenly of his parents, of his little twin sisters Emilie and Juliette who are nine years old this year; the age when all children are forced to pledge an oath of loyalty to the Council and the Regime in order so that their indoctrination can begin in the knowledge that their hearts and minds already belong to the Regime and that it is only the rest of them that need to be slowly moulded into 'Perfect Citizens'. A sudden swoop of panic slices through his being for the pair of them; bright eyed innocents whom his parents had tried to protect from the tyrannous hold of the Council by moving out of the Capital and into the country after their eldest son's first expulsion into the JDCMC had become a legal mark against the family record and his parents; ex-professors of Renaissance Art History and Romantic Literature in the pre-War days before the University had been reinstated as a factory had decided to move out to a small, non-descript town west of the Capital in a desperate attempt to protect their remaining children.

'We'll need to get back inside'. Bahorel's voice seems to come from a great distance as Jehan forcefully shakes the images of his family out of his mind and tries to focus. 'I don't care if it's dangerous, I don't care if we get arrested; we need to do something and the Capital's going to be bedlam because of the Selection so we'll have to act quickly… Combeferre…' He pauses and closes his eyes for a moment in which Jehan is reminded suddenly of the tear-stained passion lacing the choked up fury felt by their broken guide as he had furiously berated them all for doing nothing and saving their own skins only hours before. 'Combeferre's right; we can't just sit here and wait for the others. We need to get back into the Capital if we've got any chance of saving them before tonight's Selection starts and we need to get back now.'

He glares around at them all; a sense of fierce pride radiating from every crevice of his body as together they nod and Jehan feels something that is like courage begin to bubble up inside his chest as he catches Courfeyrac's eye and the centre nods back in silently grim determination.

'_We're coming Enjolras. Just hold on… Just for a little while longer… We'll get you out of there… Wherever They've taken you… Hold on Icarus…'_

**_A/N: Please feel free to read and_**_ **review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!**_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_

_**Note on text**_

_**'**__****__Niech żyje Polska!' = Long live Poland! (Blame Google Translate if that's wrong!)_


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: Another chapter for all the wonderful people who have decided to read, review, favourite and follow this story! You have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated and I love and thank you all with all my heart!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply **_**_trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC and Stagepageandscreen's fantastic AU Dystopia titled (Un)natural selection which is where I got the idea for this from into something cohesive- please don't sue me!_**

Chapter 7

It's cold. It's so cold. Why is it so cold? He doesn't know and yet he should but he is so cold and so tired… So very, very tired…

The chill seems to cling to him, caress his aching, useless body with frost fragile fingers as an unknown spasm of pain pricks itself through the streak of inky blue that scars the pale underside of his wrist and thick, unwelcome fingers grip his limp, broken wrist in a grasp so tight he has to bite back a sudden, unconscious shout of pain as a sudden explosion of unimaginable agony bursts through the shattered tendons. Desperately he tries to evade the touch as he feels his other arm being slammed down onto a cold, hard, unknown surface and the icy bite of rusted manacles snap themselves over the already fragile ligaments in a vice like grip that try as he might; he cannot avoid. 'That's it pretty boy'; the soft, disturbingly smooth tones of the Official drip painful sarcasm as the arid stench of cigarette smoke being blown with sickening slowness makes him want to vomit; the volcano of burning bile suddenly surging through a throat laid barren with fear and thirst only to be cut short by the thick, wet pressure of the new gag that is thrust between chattering teeth.

He cannot let Them do that to him. He must not. He must not allow himself to become one of those pitiful shadows; programmed only to do the bidding of the Capital and yet They are close, too close and he is so tired of having to fight Them… So very, very tired…

'_Just hold on Mon Petit. Please hold on. We'll find you; we're coming for you, both of you. Just… Just… Don't give up yet… Please… Please don't give up yet… We'll get you out of there…' _

The sudden tangled yank of thick, unwelcome fingers caught within his hair as he desperately tries to throw his head back, the taught tendons of his neck screaming as they are forced to contract. 'You don't want to fight us Enjolras.' The silkily smooth tones that have haunted his rare moments of lucidity, plagued his every moment whilst he was locked within the darkness of his own mind cuts through his shattered conscious like a knife through cloth as he feels two thick fingers caressing the line of his jaw; gripping his chin between two, crushing digits as he desperately tries to yank his face away; but to no avail.

'You _really _don't want to fight us now my little Phoenix Prince,' he can almost taste the leering, broken smile cracking through the darkness as the voice almost cracks with unprecedented, unspeakable mirth at his struggles as he feels himself being slammed back onto the hard, bare surface and the icy metallic scream of a blade being placed lightly against the pit of his larynx; resting lightly against his Adam's Apple; the blade poised, expectant.

_Just breathe 'Jolras. Please just breathe. It'll be all right; I promise. I… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… Mon Petit Ange… Mon Cher… I should've… I should've protected you… I'm sorry…_

_Oh Combeferre… It's not your fault Mon Ami… Mon Frere… Mon Cher… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… If anything it's mine… I should've… I wanted to… I'm sorry… Tell them… Tell 'Feyrac… Tell Grantaire… Tell Bahorel… Tell them… Tell them I'm sorry… I tried…_

Without warning he feels a sudden surge of unwelcome tears stabbing through his retinas; fiery droplets of painful emotion catching on his eyelashes which he cannot blink back, cannot brush away as a vision of his oldest, closest friend, his brother in all but blood seems to rear up before his shattered vision before he can stop it as a wordless shout of pain filled anguish rises to his lips only to be cut short by the rough, wet pressure of the gag.

_Combeferre… His large, dark eyes shielded by wire framed spectacles shining with a damned up waterfall of salty sadness as he felt himself being dragged away; struggling through Bahorel's bearlike grip as the fighter desperately tried to hold him back… 'Promise me 'Ferre, if anything should happen to me; you and Courfeyrac will get the others out alive. Get out of the city… Go… Go to the safe house… Use the back routes… Just get out my friend… Keep the others safe! Please… Don't worry about me… Just go! Please Mon Ami… We'll soon each other soon Mon Cher… Promise….'_

_Large, capable hands holding him in a fierce embrace as soft lips sweep a quick, chaste kiss over his forehead as together they curled up on the battered, second hand sofa in their student apartment; listening to the steady, freezing drumbeat of the rain hurling itself against the single-glazed windows and the shrieking howl of the wind as it chased itself through the silently frozen streets of the Capital. Dark eyed safety dripping from calloused fingers; the skin rough from years of leaking ink pens or doctor's instruments holding him as a voice full of rich dark sweetness quoting from the illegal copies of Robespierre, Rousseau, Desmoulins and Danton that they had smuggled from his fathers' library on a night home from boarding school; the thick, leather bound book resting lightly on his knee; the paper yellowing and crinkled with priceless antiquity in this City where procession of such documents was akin to Treason as together they poured over the spiels of ebony ink forming words bursting with the passionate flames of freedom as he caught his best friend's gaze and felt a grin of childlike happiness bursting from his lips as together their dreams slowly began to take shape; the seeds of change and progress slowly germinating through the words of their revolutionary forefathers…_

A sudden choking sob rises and dies through his throat as without warning he feels thick, unwelcome hands easing themselves around his matted mop of blood caked golden curls and supporting his head as thick fingers clamp down on his nostrils and something jarringly plastic is forced over his suddenly gaping, gasping mouth that is thick with blood, salt and fear. _Oh Mes Amis… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… _Dimly he hears the whirring click of a ventilator clanking its' way into life somewhere above him as thick, disjointed voices float through a brain struggling to remain conscious. A desperate, pleading shout that is sharp with unimaginable agony as the ominous, metallic click of a safety catch makes him suck in an involuntary shout of terror as his brain finally catches up with the rest of his screaming senses. _No… No… Not Bertrand… They can't… They wouldn't… _But he knows deep down, in some distant part of his shattered psyche that They will; that They will anything and everything in Their power to squash and extinguish the rising fires of dissent and change which are lapping dangerously close towards the cold, clear land of regulated loyalty towards the Council and the Capital on which the new regime thrives.

'No! No you can't! Please… Please just let me see him… I'll… You bastard… You bloody bastard… I'll… I'll do anything… Please…' The voice tails away into a sudden, strangled shout of pain and a hard, harsh laugh that echoes eerily through the holding chamber as he desperately tries to throw himself against his bonds and understand what is going on; but the restraints holding him are too strong and as he tries to rise again; a sudden, excruciating explosion of pain flashes through his legs and thick, unwelcome hands force him none-to-gently back onto the stretcher; lingering for the briefest of moments as they trace the burn marks that caress his shoulder blades rising through the sweat soaked linen. 'Don't try and fight it boy,' the unknown voice is harsh with something he can't quite place; the clipped constanents of the Capital rough and worn with age as he feels a heavy hand grip his shoulder and force him back; the unknown digits digging painfully into the thin linen of his shirt as he desperately tries to blink away the steadily approaching darkness that is threatening to overwhelm him as the medication finally begins to take effect.

Desperately he tries to keep his eyes open; but the optical orbs are slammed shut by a irremovable force and refuse to do his bidding as the darkness that he has for so long tried to avoid finally consumes him and he is lost; falling in a helpless, pain filled arc through the drugged darkness of his broken mind.

Bertrand feels like he is living in a nightmare and try as he might; he can't wake up. In a blur of tear stained, pain filled fear he feels himself being marched away from the holding chamber and into a smaller cell where he is forced into a hard backed chair; his legs threatening to buckle as he desperately tries to twist away from the harsh, unknown hands that continue to hold him in a fierce, unrelenting embrace; the look of terrified agony burning within each strand of cerulean blue brilliance branding itself like fire against his eyelids as he desperately tries to think. But any sense of rational thought feels like an impossible dream at the moment so, gritting his teeth he allows himself to be half pulled, half dragged along the non-descript shadowy passageway and into the depths of the Capital building.

The flickering glare of an energy efficient light bulb burns his retinas as thick hands shove him further into the chair and the cold, burning bite of a rope cuts within his wrists as he feels his arms being forced behind his back and the sudden metallic click of a safety catch being slid of as the icy metallic beauty of a revolver is slotted against his temple. 'Don't move traitor.' The voice is cracking with expectancy as the sudden sensation of thick, unwanted fingers tangling themselves within his hair and pulling his head back so that the suddenly taught tendons of his neck scream with unheard cries of unbearable agony as his heart leaps into his throat and settles there; desperately trying to keep him grounded in a life which deep down he knows is over.

The arid stench of cigarette smoke makes him want to gag as he feels a sudden river of panicked sweat erupt over the back of his trembling hands which he balls into fists because he cannot allow Them the opportunity of sensing his weakness and pressing Their advantage; not now, not when so much is at stake, not when a life; a little life with so much fire, so much burning, palpable energy hangs in the balance and he cannot let Them do what he knows They want so much to do to Enjolras, he can't! Desperately he tries to shake the sudden mirage of agonizingly painful memories off, desperately trying to focus on the immediacy of his situation and gain his bearings as he feels the revolver dig itself deeper into his temple; hears his heart beating in a sudden, ragged rythmn somewhere near his Adam's Apple as he finally manages to lift his exhausted eyes to take in his new prison cell.

The room is small; the walls splashed with chipped whitewash; the only illumination coming from a naked light bulb that is swinging perilously like a clock's pendulum; the flickering, fading light casting huge, grotesque shadows over the walls. A bare wooden table sits in front of him; with a sheaf of thick, Official paper and a pen lying across words which he can't make sense of; the thick spiels of ebony ink unravelling themselves through a brain that is numb with pain, fear and shock. The cold weight of the revolver digging itself into his skin makes him tense as a low, soft laugh rings through his ears and the sound of the door being banged shut sends a shiver of terrified foreboding coursing through him; as quick and as painful as an icy torrent of water being cascaded over an already freezing body.

'That won't be necessary', a hard, deep, cold voice booms through the silence as the twinkling slosh of liquid being poured against glass combined with the scrape of another chair against the bare, wooden floorboards makes him slowly lift his head and glare into the face of his oppressor.

'Will it?' A tall, thickset Official with a shadow of scraggly beard scruff caressing a prominent jaw and small, dark eyes that sparkle with an almost childlike sense of questioning sits down heavily in the opposite chair and takes a long, deep draft from the glass. Watching the swirling, dark liquid disappear through the cavernous mouth makes Bertrand realise just how thirsty he is as his tongue begins to itch and he has to swallow convulsively to stop.

'Let Enjolras go', he can feel the ice in his voice; dark, treacherous ice dripping from each growled out syllable as he keeps his eyes on the large, battered face that makes him think inexplicably of Bahorel; their courageous, passionate fighter; the rock of the Revolution now wanted for crimes of High Treason like the rest of them; cornered like frightened rabbits into the darkness of the safe house. _Play your cards slowly Bertrand_; he can almost feel the thickly comforting presence of the fighter and for some strange reason; Bossuet; although he knows that there is no time to question the strange workings of his exhausted brain standing over him as he tries to plan his next attack on this ever changing game of Life. _Play them slowly and always watch your opponent; you never know when Lady Luck's going to turn against you._

Dimly, he can still feel the metallic iciness of the revolver lodged within his temple; smell the sweetly perverse stink of nicotine clinging to the Official who is barring his every chance of escape and even if he did; he knows inexplicably that it would just lead to an early death by the cold, icy darkness of a gun barrel and he does not want his friends, his brothers to have that on their consciousness's.

A deep, dark laugh that booms through the sudden silence cuts through his reverie like a knife through cloth as he raises his eyes to meet the small, glittering irises watching him with an expression of almost pitiful disbelief etched like ink over the plain, blank features. '_Let Enjolras go?' _The laugh simply gets louder as one of the Official's hands hits the table with a crashing thud; almost disrupting the now empty glass that totters perilously for a moment before righting itself and Bertrand feels a sudden, inexplicable wave of white-hot fury bubble up inside inside his chest; threatening to burst through him as he desperately tries to remain calm.

'Have you lost your wits _boy_?' The official spits out the last word as if it leaves a sour taste in his mouth; each syllable laced with malicious, icy contempt. He glares back, clenching his teeth painfully against the sudden tirade of stinging remarks that are crowding round his bloody mouth; words that will as surely as he knows his own name will only quicken his death sentence and Enjolras… Oh God… Enjolras…

'Let Enjolras go? Let the leader of the damn thing we're trying to quell _go_? Boy… You're smart, surely you know what will happen if we let your precious angel go? You saw what it was like before War didn't you?' He pauses here and despite all of the rest of his senses screaming for him to disagree; Bertrand has to see his point. 'You saw the corruption, didn't you? Yes; of course you did, but you were probably too young to understand what it really meant.' He breaks off and rubs a aghast hand over his chin before enunciating his words with deliberate care; as if speaking to a very small child as waves of unbearable, silent fury crash over Bertrand as he struggles to remain calm, to not raise to the bait which is dangling tantalizingly in front of his shattered psyche. 'This Regime… The Council… The Selection is here to protect you Citizens from what happened before. Why do we have the Selection boy? Can you answer me that?' The words have a sudden, deadly calmness to them as the Official leans across the table and Bertrand has no choice but to hold his gaze; knowing that he has to keep silent, knowing inexplicably that the rules of this strange, new game of Life have changed without his explicit knowledge and he will have to reclaim his place as a player before it is too late and the die are recast.

'To… To root out traitors and insurgents and…' The words feel painfully childish to him; even though he knows that this is exactly what this Official wants and he will have to play his game even if it hurts as the words tail away and a sudden, desperate thought that initially makes no sense at all crashes through his brain in a sudden, painful swoop of realisation. _'NO!' _Desperately he tries to stand; realising too late that he is still bound to the chair, that there is still a revolver slotted within the slight indent in his skull that holds his life together, that his voice is threatening to break, cracking like that of a terrified child… 'No! No! No you can't! You… Bastard… Bloody, fucking bastard… Please… Please just let me see him… Let me see him before… I'll… You… I'll… I'll do anything… Please…'

The Official watches his struggles silently, a slight smile tugging at his lips as he takes another swig from his glass and makes an almost invisible nod to an Official which in his terror for Enjolras, for his friends, for the Resistance, Bertrand had not spotted; standing like a dark cloaked ghost in the shadowy recesses of the chamber. He sees him now through suddenly bloodshot eyes; tears he cannot remember shedding slicing like salt soaked fire through his cheeks as he continues to struggle; not knowing or caring that it is completely hopeless, that nothing will save Enjolras now, that…

The ringing click of a phone being disconnected somewhere in the shadows brings him spiralling back into reality as the icy mouth of the revolver digs deeper into his temple and the short, harsh laugh of the official who is holding his life in his hands resonates softly through suddenly screaming ears. He can feel a sheen of sweat trickling through his hairline; catching on a mop of russet brown curls as his eyes slip suddenly shut and he keeps them closed; futiely praying to whoever may be listening that this is a dream, that this is just a nightmare and he is going to wake up, he's got to wake up…

'Come along boy, we haven't got all day,' the cold, symmetrical plastic of the phone feels jarringly alien to his hands as he feels one of the bonds securing his hands to the chair slicing itself free as the trembling limb is lifted to grip the phone; suddenly nerveless digits slick with sweat as they stumble over the buttons; trying to make the call.

He can feel the weight of their eyes on him; can taste the sickly stench of fear radiating from every crevice of his body as his fingers stumble over the numbers; praying that someone, anyone will pick up on the other line; that he can at least have the small comfort that Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Bahorel did manage to get the others to safety despite the danger; if nothing else.

The sound of the other phone ringing in the safe house seems to come from a long way off as he feels the ice of the revolver pushing itself further into his skull; senses the lone finger itching to slide away the safety catch as without warning the phone beeps itself onto the answer machine and what little composure he has managed to conserve within himself finally slips away into the crushing darkness of oblivion.

'_I'm sorry, but the person you have called is unavailable at the moment. Please leave a message after the tone. Once you've left your message just hang up or for more options; press 1 at any time. Please be aware that The Capital exercises the right to listen into all phone calls and so any or all information will be closely monitored and stored for further observation. Thank you for your patience and cooperation. Long live the Monarchy!'_

He can feel his heart beating in a ragged, disjointed rythmn against his chest; the tiny organ straining frantically against the ivory cage of bone as he desperately tries to swallow back the slowly rising barricade of painful terror that has risen without warning through his throat and begins to speak; hoping against hope that someone, anyone will pick up the message and soon.

' Bahorel… Feuilly… 'Ferre… Look mate… I… We're…' He stops and swallows; squeezing his eyes shut as the revolver digs itself deeper into his temple and the stench of the cigarette smoke threatens to overwhelm him once more as he remembers Enjolras; sees the leaping, licking, living flames of passionate life and hope guttering, failing, dying in the azure irises as he crumpled against his chest; too weak to move or speak as all the fire he had conserved within him ebbed away in a blood curdling, heart breaking scream of furious, agonised pain.

They've started the Alteration… I tried… I tried to stop them and Enjolras… Oh God… Enjolras… I just… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… He's… But They told me… They've got conditions and…' The sound of another safety catch being slid off in the silence of the shadows catches him unaware as he dares to catch the gaze of the Official still sat across from him; silently watching his struggles as a small, sweetly perverse smile tugs itself across his lips.

'_Go on boy'; _the smile, the small, dark eyes glittering in the shadows seem to say. '_Go on. They'll be so worried about you. Put them at ease won't you and send the Capital's condolences and our most sincere apologies? Well done.' _The silent sarcasm dripping from those small, dark pupils makes his blood boil with an unspeakable, unfathomable rage as he tears his gaze away; slicing the connection in half like a white hot blade searing itself through skin.

He can feel tears in his own eyes now as he reaches once more for the phone; minute pricks of fiery, painful emotion that he doesn't bother restraining as they pool through his pupils; all sense of composure now shredded and thrown into the winds as he tries again.

'They want information… Just… Just tell Combeferre… Tell Bahorel…' He can't continue. There are words, there are always words; he can feel them rising through his throat, dancing on a tongue aching for the cold, clear sweetness of water and yet dying as they hit the tear stained barricade of painful terror that is blocking his mouth.

Without really understanding why, he feels the machine slip from shaking, nerveless digits, hears the long, steady beeping whine of the connection snapping itself apart as the phone crashes to the table and he buries his head in his free arm; finally allowing the tsunami of pent up, anguished pain to overcome him.

_I'm sorry… I'm so, so sorry… I tried… Oh Mes Amis… I tried… Forgive me… Please…_

**_A/N: Well that was emotionally draining…_**

**_Note on text_**

**_ If anyone watches Game of Thrones, I am shamelessly basing my poor, broken Bertrand on Robb Stark's reaction to Ned Stark's death in Season 1 and Richard Madden's heartbreakingly emotional performance to try and stop myself from drowning in a great big pool of tears- it's not working!_**

**_I am so sorry for the wait on this update but I've been up to my ears with writing Critical Essays and sorting out Bank details and general Uni life so I have had very little time to even think about writing this chapter- even though it's been in my head for goodness knows how long! _**

**_Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain! _**

**_Much love and enjoy x_**


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